


Behind Closed Doors

by crookedswingset



Series: Perfect Enough [2]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Anxiety, Bad Decisions, Blood and Violence, Botched Marriage Proposal, Communication Failure, Corruption, Crimes & Criminals, Established Relationship, Friends taking care of each other, Friendship, Going undercover, Happy Ending, M/M, Murder for Money, Mutual Pining, Police, Relationship Issues, Secret Identity, Temporary Character Death (Wade), Trust Issues, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall, dumb boys doing dumb things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 141,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22875982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedswingset/pseuds/crookedswingset
Summary: When the Benefactor arranges a successful hit against a cop in a Spider-Man suit, Peter Parker has one shot to go undercover, infiltrate the criminal's operations, and shut them down for good. But, to do that, he needs to let everyone in his life think he's really dead.Even Wade.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: Perfect Enough [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644382
Comments: 87
Kudos: 310
Collections: Spideypool Big Bang - The 2019 Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, y'all. Off the Record wasn't supposed to have a sequel. I blame you all. (I, of course, had NOTHING to do with this...)
> 
> Shout out to babyshawk!! She's been amazing to work with, and this wouldn't be what it is without her. Stop reading this and go check out her artwork here: https://babyshawk.tumblr.com/post/190996809296
> 
> Also, please send some love to pineau-noir! On top of participating in this challenge herself, she beta'd this mess for me and helped propel it to the finish line. All remaining errors are, tragically, my own.
> 
> Big thanks to the mods for running this great event! Sorry to make you sweat--there were technical issues. Enjoy.

There was a new coffee shop at the corner of 3rd Ave and 41st Street in Manhattan, New York. It had a successful, star-studded launch just one week prior, and at 1:45 PM, the lunch traffic crowd was finally starting to die down.

It wasn’t a controversial place. It had the faintest hint of modern design without a full surrender to industrial chic. A couple of flat screen televisions hung on the different walls, usually next to an overflowing newspaper stand. The brand’s commitment to buzz words like “cruelty-free”, “green design”, and “organically harvested” were present, but not forced down the throats of those who would much rather just have a cup of coffee. The coffee was, admittedly, too fancy but not pricey.

The shop was in all honestly like many coffee shops in New York City, and no one would expect it to offer them anything but the ordinary.

But today, more than one bored eye flicked up from their phones when all four televisions suddenly flared with the bright primary colors of the local news station.

“We interrupt this broadcast for some breaking news.” The anchor woman looked frazzled. Her face was flushed and her blond hair was messy, but she had a look of absolute concentration on her face. “As of 1:40 PM today, we received multiple reports that the costumed vigilante known as Spider-Man is dead.” Her frown deepened. “I repeat, Spider-Man is dead. We’re going live to the scene.”

The televisions shifted over to a feed of the foot of the Daily Bugle building. The video zoomed in on a man in a red and blue suit, crumpled on the front steps. A plain clothes cop slowly approached the body, one hand on her gun. When the body remained still, she crouched, checking for a pulse under his chin.

The newscast zoomed in further. To patrons of the coffee shop and all the New Yorkers watching, it was clear that Spider-Man’s head had been caved in, leaving no doubt about the truth of the broadcast.

It was more gory than even the news people had anticipated, and certainly not something that the customers of that coffee shop expected to see that afternoon. A father dove to comfort his child, and two teenagers playing hooky raised their cell phones to record the sight. A barista dove into the back room, muffling hiccuping tears.

And, at the counter, a certain Peter Parker dropped a full cup of coffee on his work shoes, eyes fixed on that too familiar pattern of red and blue.

-

_3 Weeks Earlier_

Peter Parker slammed open the window of his tiny stamp of a New York City apartment. He slipped inside silently, a blur of red and blue. Wade Wilson followed him guilty, speeding up the fire escape until he was level with the open window. Then, with some hesitation, he inched his way into his darling’s home, feeling like maybe he’d missed a cue.

Running away from you meant back off, right? No touchie. Bad touch. Eeeevil man.

They were past that, though. Years past that, even. Wade had a shiny new Avengers ID card in his wallet to prove it. He was on the up and up, and he certainly wasn’t the kind of man that Spider-Man had to run away from.

Not anymore. Not today. Not ever, he hoped.

“Petey-” Wade started to say softly, ready to grovel.

But Peter didn’t respond.

Instead, Peter sank slowly to his knees, a low whistling groan escaping his throat. He pawed at his mask ineffectively with one hand. The other pressed tightly against the center of his chest, twisting up the spider that rested there.

Peter wasn’t angry, Wade realized. Peter was having a panic attack.

Wade bolted into the sad corner space Peter called his kitchen and ripped the drawers open. He found the paper bag they had just for this purpose. Then he hurled himself back to his lovely, skidding the last foot on his knees and immediately peeling off Peter’s mask the rest of the way. Sweaty brown hair sprang free at last, crowning a face that was a worrying mix of bone white and pink.

Trembling, Peter tried to help, like he always did. Like the contrary spider he was, Peter recovered best when he was crouching in a bend that would hurt anyone else’s toes, a crunch that would compress anyone else’s lungs and freak them out more. Wade knew from past experience that Peter didn’t mind if Wade touched him then, so Wade didn’t hold back, bracing an arm around Peter’s shaking torso. He did it so that when Peter finally flopped over like an exhausted pancake, he wouldn’t slam his face into the ground. Again.

Wade held the paper bag to Peter’s mouth, murmuring soft reassurances. What was a little anxiety between lovers anyway? He was just happy to have Peter in his life, to have a place in all of Peter’s routines—even this one. He was less happy at the idea that maybe he triggered a panic attack in his one and only. That… sucked.

And that fear reared its ugly head when Peter suddenly pushed the bag away from his mouth after only a few breaths.

“Not yet, honey, you need-”

“How can you just _ask_ me to marry you?” Peter gasped out, eyes watering.

Wade froze. No touchie. Bad touch. Eeeeevil man.

“…I can leave,” he offered in a small voice.

Peter didn’t hear him. “Do you understand what marriage is? Legally? It’s _contracts_ , Wade. Contracts that would tie me to you, you to Spider-Man, me to Spider-Man, and I just can’t- I can’t. _I can’t. I’m_ -” Peter let out a long, painful wheeze, clenching his eyes shut.

And, for Wade, it suddenly clicked. This wasn’t so much the heartbreaking rejection he’d been fearing, but rather part of the continuing saga that was Peter’s negotiations around his not-so-public identity.

Peter Parker’s relationship with Deadpool was, to the general public, a minor footnote of his brief and benign invasion of Oscorp in search of the man behind the Spidey mask. Few people knew it to be a positive relationship, and even fewer people knew it to be romantic. And for a man who fought as hard as Peter last year to keep his identity under wraps—even to his friends and allies—marriage was… out of the question, really. If it had any shades of legality to it, Peter Parker would be linked to Wade Wilson, aka Deadpool, for all of the world to see.

And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Peter Parker, Oscorp corporate drone, fit just a little too well with Deadpool’s other well-known infatuation—Spider-Man. 

“No, honey, I’m sorry.” Damn. Wade had really fucked up this time. He should have known Peter would fixate on the consequences.

Peter’s fingers curled around his wrist. “You- you-” There were tears running down Peter’s face—frustration or guilt, Wade didn’t know.

And it didn’t matter. “Just breathe, Peter,” Wade begged quietly. When Peter frowned and obediently brought the paper bag back to his mouth, Wade kissed his sweaty forehead.

Inflate, deflate. Inflate, deflate. Inflate, deflate…

-

Yuri Watanabe stood at the bow the Coast Guard motor lifeboat, wind rippling her leather jacket. After a beat, she turned and eyed the Coast Guard behind her. The officer was gawking at the very irregular addition to their assignment. 

“Land ahoy, gentlemen!” Spider-Man called out cheerfully. He’d taken up a position above the cabin—literally on top of it, crouching. He had an NYPD cap on top of his covered head, and it sat there at a jaunty, annoying angle.

As if feeling her gaze, Spider-Man tucked his chin slightly, looking down. “And cap’n,” he revised hastily, firing a sloppy salute.

“Get off of there, Spider-Man,” Yuri ordered, biting on a smile.

“Yes, ma’am!” Spider-Man lazily flipped over the side of the cabin, landing lightly on his toes. Then he swayed slightly. “Woah. Still don’t have my sealegs.” He winked at the closest member of the Coast Guard, cheeky as always. “Never did think I’d be a seafaring spider. Say, got any openings? I think I could get the hang of this.”

“Really, Spidey?” Yuri said flatly, crossing her arms.

“Aaaand I’m shutting up now.”

“Don’t bother. I know it’s painful for you.”

“It’s a condition,” Spider-Man claimed gustily.

Yuri rolled her eyes but didn’t chastise him further. Yes, they were on an assignment, but she wasn’t for pointless decorum and, besides, Spidey could do nothing wrong on this borrowed vessel—he was a bonafide celebrity with the Coast Guard. He rarely worked with them, after all. Well, besides that one time someone blew up part of the Brooklyn bridge. Yuri couldn’t blame their partner agency for the gawking—though there was little excuse for her junior officer, Sal Jones, who had surrendered his hat to New York’s most iconic vigilante in the first place.

Yuri leveled a glare at Sal, and the man—47 with a family of four—full on blushed, so Yuri pretended to be glaring at something behind him instead.

Geez.

The ship came to a slow stop, bobbing up and down in the waves. It joined a collection of other small boats and ships hailing from the NYPD and the Coast Guard.

And in front of them all loomed Ryker’s Island.

Frowning at the jail, Yuri leaned on the railing, scanning what she could see for any signs of foul play. She saw nothing. Despite the report of a prison-wide riot, everything seemed calm. Almost too calm. All the power was still on and the guards were still conducting their usual outer perimeter patrols.

Spider-Man walked up to the railing, palming it between both of his gloved hands. “So… when do we get called in?”

“Hopefully never,” Yuri said. She spared her bright clad ally a look. “Ryker’s has anti-riot protocol since the late eighties. If all is going well, the officers are deescalating the situation from the inside.” Spider-Man hummed quietly in response, his lenses narrowing. “What’s wrong, Spidey? Itching to visit some old friends?”

“Nah. All of my pen pals are in the Raft. Most of them, anyway.” Spider-Man spun, putting his back against the rail. Quietly, he said, “How’s Operation Spidey Cop going?”

Yuri’s lip curled in a not-so-friendly way. “We are not calling them that.”

Spider-Man didn’t quite snicker at her… but it was close.

Aware of the eyes on them, Yuri refrained from punching his arm, which was probably for the best. Spider-Man didn’t seem to know how to respond to the horseplay camaraderie of the spaces Yuri operated in. This was probably also for the best, given that a careless swipe from this web slinger could knock a full-grown man through a brick wall.

She respected that. Not that effortless, scary strength, but rather the man and the personality behind it that worked so hard to avoid inflicting death or serious injury on his natural prey.

The partnership between Yuri and Spider-Man was still new. She'd gotten to know the infamous vigilante right around the time that the mutually supportive relationship between everyone’s favorite neighborhood web slinger and nearly every other superhero in New York City tanked, falling apart in a distressingly public way. It was made worse by the machinations of the Green Goblin, who spilled an experimental Oscorp drug across much of Manhattan. Although designed to cure cancer, it seemed to provoke insanity, hyper aggression, and augmented strength in most of the civilians it touched.

At the same time, the Green Goblin had also rigged the old Avengers Tower to trap the Avengers, the Defenders, the Fantastic Four, and some civilians, which left Spidey—and the NYPD—all alone to deal with the threat.

It was then that Yuri’s impression of Spider-Man was sealed. No matter how mouthy or annoying Spider-Man got nowadays, her mental image of him would always be of that quiet, bleeding young superhero limping from situation to situation with the doomed perseverance of a drowning man. He’d earned her respect then, and he had yet to lose it.

Anyway, Spider-Man had only revealed bits and pieces of that mysterious—but temporary—superhero split to Yuri. She still didn’t understand what had happened, but it was clear that he concluded it was his fault.

And all Yuri could conclude from the situation was that Spidey’s idea of a Spidey Clone Army wasn’t without merit. Having other supers in town willing to don his suit meant that Spider-Man seemed more present on the streets than any man with a full-time job ever could be. And Yuri couldn’t hate that.

Which was why she was piloting a small repeat of that discontinued project—this time, with NYPD officers. It was a side project that Spider-Man watched with equal concern and interest.

“Crime’s down 9%,” Yuri said smugly, wanting to rub it in a little. “Just the sight of your blue and red is enough for the criminals to suddenly grow a little angel on their shoulder.” She laughed. “The threat of a beatdown is, as always, a highly effective deterrent.”

“I don’t think it’s that,” Spidey replied. The ship bobbed with an unexpectedly big wave, but he hardly noticed. He seemed preoccupied. “Sometimes they need a visual reminder that there are other choices in the world they could be making instead.”

Yuri stared at him, incredulous. “You sound like a kindergarten teacher.”

Spidey turned those white, wide eyes on her. “It’s true! Criminals are people too. They’re somebody’s parents, somebody’s children, somebody’s spouse or friend. They have hobbies and morals and standards, and, really, I don’t think there’s much of a difference between us and the average bad guy.” Spidey itched the side of his face, looking away. “When it comes down to it, I think everyone’s one bad day away from their villain origin story.”

Yuri didn’t say anything. She disagreed. _Heartily._ There was a world’s worth of difference between the average murderer and somebody’s law-abiding grandma—between the average villain and Spider-Man. Criminals were criminals. Whatever their motive was, they made a conscious decision to break the law. It was her role as a cop to correct that, and it was their decision whether they would take that correction or continue down their path of being a criminal.

But the way Spider-Man said that last sentence resonated with her. _Everyone’s one bad day away from their villain origin story._ Even if she didn’t quite believe that (principles, values, and ideals had to stand for something), Spider-Man clearly did. And if Spidey, of all people, thought that…

Well. That was troubling.

“May the rest of your days be easy and uncomplicated,” Yuri said quietly.

“What was that?”

“...Nothing.”

-

Jessica Jones walked into the living space of the Fantastic Four, not quite sure what to expect. She’d never been so high up in the building before, and the higher she got, the more she was convinced that she should have stayed in the lobby with that increasingly unhelpful receptionist robot.

The Baxter Building was originally set up as offices, then as a research lab. The bottom floors were still just that—office spaces and research labs. Reed made a pretty penny renting out the space to others, and it had only taken a few years for people to see office space under the Fantastic Four as a plus rather than as a life-threatening minus.

Reed’s own research lab was on the very top floor, and special care had been taken to reclaim the upper floors underneath it for residential use. It was, for better or worse, the Four’s home.

Jessica stepped out of the elevator cautiously, looking around. “Knock knock!” Jessica called out. “Special blood delivery.”

A moment later, the Thing popped his head out from around the corner. He was wearing a pink apron with yellow ducks. His rocky face had powder dusted over it, and it creased, flour and all, into a large smile when he saw Jessica.

“Hey, Jess!” he said, friendly. He dusted off his hands and ambled towards her.

Relieved at this way out, Jessica headed towards him. “Hi Ben.” She lifted and wiggled the biohazard container she had in her left hand. “Harry Osborn’s mandated quarterly checkup? Reed was supposed to meet me downstairs, but…”

“But that damn fool’s going gaga over baby toys again. He forgot.” Ben plucked the container out of her hand with two careful fingers. “Ever hear of helicopter parents? We sure as hell didn’t until Reed became one-”

Suddenly, voices rose somewhere above them—Susan Storm’s was one of them. Out of sight, a door opened and the bickering became clearer.

“-and I said don’t care!” Johnny Storm barked over his shoulder. He stomped down the small stairway that led to Ben and Jessica’s level, scowling at the ground. He looked up and froze half a second at the sight of her. At her raised eyebrows, he dipped his head, mumbling something. Then he brushed by Jessica, disappearing in the elevator behind her.

Ben watched him go, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sheesh.”

“What is the hot head worked up about now?” Jessica asked, curious. She rarely worked with him. He was far too flashy for what she needed to do, and he had a horrible tendency of flirting with everything that moved like he was god’s gift to the world. It was distracting.

It was kind of refreshing to see him acting like the brat she’d always imagined him to be. Even if it was kind of unfair to him. She hardly knew him, after all.

“Ah, just your normal stuff. Family’s growing. Johnny’s gotta grow with it too.” Sighing, Ben gestured at her to follow and walked back into an industrial sized kitchen. He bent over, putting the blood sample in a squat fridge covered with warning labels.

“Nice to know you keep your biohazards so close to your milk.”

“I’ve seen your apartment. You don’t have a foot to stand on.” True. “You know, Jess, I’ve been thinking. What’s keeping the Osborn kid from giving ya fake blood?”

“I like the way you think, Ben,” Jessica said warmly. She always appreciated paranoia in a superhero. As a collective, too many of them were way too damn trusting. “Which is why I watch Dr. Stacy extract the blood herself.” After a beat, Jessica scowled. “But, jokes on me, they spend the whole time _flirting_ with each other...”

Ben chuckled. Gwen Stacy was a favorite of the Four, and for good reason. Last year, she’d defied the Avengers, uncovered one of Norman Osborn’s secret experiments, incapacitated her rampaging brainwashed boyfriend, and discovered the cure for Vitanova. And she didn’t even have any superpowers—just her brain and a whole lot of nerve.

And if that didn’t describe the Fantastic Four before their transformation to a tee, Jessica didn’t know what else could.

“Poor kid,” Ben said soberly, amusement fading. “He’s got more money than god, and none of that makes up for what he’s been through.”

Ben wasn’t wrong. Norman had terrorized and brutalized Harry. For months, he'd forced Harry to take doses of Vitanova and used it brainwash Harry to do his bidding. Harry'd even ended up absorbing Norman’s false belief that Harry was Spider-Man.

And that false belief was probably the worst factor of it all. So many things could have been avoided if Norman hadn’t believed that Harry was Spider-Man. Harry might have even been spared. Instead, Norman sent Harry after Jessica and cut his own son open to send a message to the rest of the superheroes of New York. He was even positioning Harry to take the fall for the 10 or so murders of potential Oscorp whistle-blowers.

If only they could blame Vitanova for Norman’s cruelty. Norman was using small, measured amounts on himself too, likely seeing the value in enhanced strength—and not caring overly much about the accompanying insanity.

It would have been so much easier on Harry if everything Norman Osborn did was tied to that drug usage. But Norman’s murderous ways predated Vitanova—up to and including the murder of Harry’s own mother.

Harry grew up with a vile man who did vile things—and he was doing his best to come out from under it.

“But he got lucky, I guess. Rumor has it, Norman got the short end of the stick. He’s been in a coma since last May.”

“Good riddance,” Jessica said flatly.

Ben turned sad eyes on her. “Jess…”

Jessica turned her face away. It wasn’t like she didn’t feel for Harry. Harry had stepped up in a lot of ways in the last year, doing his best to atone for both his actions and the actions of his father. He even tried to make it up to Jessica, which was… different. Jessica had gotten in a lot of nasty fights in her day, and none of her other opponents went as far as Harry Osborn to make sure her business was thriving afterwards.

Jessica even had three assistants now, all necessary to keep ahead of the influx of assignments. Granted, there was really only one she trusted to investigate without her, and that was the one who moonlighted as an Avenger. If the scumbags of the world wanted to square off against Wanda Maximoff, they could be her guest.

So. In the end, she supposed Harry Osborn was an alright guy. But she would not—could not—shed a single tear for Norman Osborn.

With that grim discussion concluded, Ben sent her off with a handful of cookies. They were delicate and warm, made with slightly too much shortening.

But just as Jessica was making her way to the elevator, munching on her reward, a flash of light out of the corner of her eye caught her attention.

She looked both ways, then cocked her head. A quiet, repetitive jingle was coming out of the same room as the light—and suddenly her mind was made up. She wouldn’t be much of a private eye if she wasn’t inherently curious about odd lights and weird noises. Even in the lair of a superhero.

Shoving her last cookie in her mouth, she ducked into the side room and started snooping around.

If she had to call it, this had to be Ben’s office. There was a low, reinforced couch on one end, and a computer set up on the other. Three massive screens took up the wall. In front of it, there was a mouse and keyboard—the usual set up. But in this office, the mouse was about the size of her head, and the keyboard itself was fascinatingly large, each key about the size of six normal ones.

She pressed one out of curiosity and noted that it took quite a bit of strength to depress. Damn. Maybe she should ask Reed to make her a set too. The Thing wasn’t the only person in New York City dealing with strength augmentation issues. Even worse for Jessica, she’d made the mistake of putting Wanda in charge of the books, and the world’s most exacting, detail-oriented Avenger wouldn’t let her replace her broken laptop. Even if it was the sixth one she’d broke in the last three weeks, that was just cold.

The monitors lit up again. The flash of light that attracted her attention must have been the screen going on power saving mode, she figured. But what the heck was _that_?

Suddenly, that annoyingly repetitive jingle was starting to make a whole lot of sense…

Just then, Ben came in, humming to himself. Still poised over his keyboard, Jessica watched him critically, somewhat amused by his lack of situational awareness.

“Not gonna lie, big guy, was kinda hoping I’d catch you looking at porn.” Ben flinched so badly, his plate of cookies went flying. The words that came out of his mouth? Definitely R-rated. Grinning, Jessica turned her head back to the monitors. “This might be worse, though…”

“ _Jessica._ Jesus, woman, you’re-” Ben paused, processing what she said. His shoulders bunched up defensively near where his ears used to be. “What of it? It’s just an app.”

Jessica looked back at him. Ben’s face was screwed up in a considering frown, like he was trying to read her. “A game?”

“A game,” he agreed. “A dating simulator.” When Jessica didn’t immediately roast him, Ben continued cautiously, saying, “It’s called, uh, _Kissy Kissy Meow Meow_.”

Jessica blinked. Then she blinked again. She let free the smirk she’d been holding back. “Hey, quick question,” she said cheerfully, enjoying herself. “What the fuck.”

Oh, if only rock could blush… “Climb up off my back, Jess,” Ben said, exasperated. “Like I’ve never seen you do weird shit.” He shooed her away from the keyboard. “Besides, nothing at all wrong with a piece of media where all people do is like and care about each other-”

Jessica mimed gagging, backing up with her hands raised. “Gross. I don’t get that touchy-feely crap.”

Ben side eyed her. “Down and out with Cage again, huh?”

“…Rude.” Jessica and Luke had a complicated history, but things had changed recently. They were finally circling back to being something to each other.

Then Luke suddenly decided to take a vacation. Without one word to her, he up and left. He even put Danny in charge of the bar, which ignited an almost feral delight in their token mystical warrior. Clearly Danny had watched Cocktail with Tom Cruise one too many times when he was a small child.

Yeah. Her and Luke were gonna have some _words_ when he came back. That was for damn sure…

In front of her, the monitors flashed repeatedly. In his attempt to minimize the game, Ben accidentally advanced through the dialogue. A new character showed up. In contrast with the previous character’s generic and pleasant smile, this character was frowning, half hiding her face in a big scarf. She looked off to the side with a suspicious frown, and there was a camera hanging from the loose grip of her left hand.

Jessica leaned in, squinting at the monitor. “…Does this character look like me or what?”

She reeled back when Ben suddenly shot up, trying to cover the screens with his bulk.

“C-coincidence!” Ben yelped. “Just uh-” Ben tried and failed to come up with an explanation. So he went for a distraction instead. “Say, don’t ya have a cat to find or a cheater to nail or a murderer to bring to justice or something?”

She narrowed her eyes at his broad back. Very suspicious. His panic made her think there was something to chew on here, something to drag into the light.

Jessica backed off. She was professionally nosy, sure. But sometimes it was more fun to make her friends sweat it out.

“…Bye, Ben,” Jessica said in a sing-songy voice. Ben swore at her with zero heat, and she laughed, finally leaving this time.

Besides, Ben was right. She wasn’t running after any murderers at the moment, but Matt was idly dangling a weird case in front of her—a widow and her decapitated husband. Initial coroner reports indicated the decapitation happened by force—explosive force, likely via a bomb collar.

It was a ridiculous way to kill somebody. Minus some case in the early 2000s, Jessica had only heard of the tactic in over-dramatic movies and television shows.

The widow went to Matt and was trying to sue her husband’s employer—that is, if she could find out who his employer was.

The hows and whys of the case were murky. There was no blackmail and no ransom. The husband had just disappeared one day on the way to work. He found dead two weeks later, corpse riddled with contusions—and, oh yeah, minus one head. No one knew who the employer was either, only that the dead husband would have made off with a couple hundred thousand dollars if he committed and did well.

If the employer was indeed involved, Jessica couldn’t help but wonder if the collar was a result of a lack of commitment or poor performance.

Firing people was so much easier than killing them. She wished more bad guys understood that.

As Jessica stepped out of the Baxter Building, she gave Matt a call, cycling through what she’d have to say to break through his usual cryptic bullshit. She was in. She wanted to know more.

But Matt didn’t pick up.


	2. Chapter 2

In the pouring rain, an art thief roared up the side of a residential building, his jet boots spitting blue fire. A shower of bullets followed his ascent. Two hit his leg, and the thief ate it on the roof, adding another fat bruise to the mix of cuts and injuries from his unplanned window escape.

The criminal rolled over, clutching his leg. “I’ve been hit! I’ve been- huh?” There was no blood, because of course there fucking wasn’t.

Wade was a goddamn professional. 

He pounced on the thief, notching his gun under the man’s ski mask. “Wanna play a game of assassin roulette?” he asked cheerfully.

He felt anything but—cheerful, that is. Fuck criminals who did shit during a freaking storm. He felt like a drowned, rotting cat wrapped up in leather. It certainly wasn’t his best look. And, while he was complaining, was that a fucking _stitch_ in his side? In him, Wade Wilson? Paramour and number one fan of NYC’s favorite wallcrawler? For shame. Such a person with excellent taste should be able to scale a building without losing his damn breath. 

Well. At least he made it up here first.

“Which one of the cuties in panda gear is firing rubber rounds?” Wade continued in a sing-song voice. Then he suddenly jabbed his gun harder into the man’s chin, growling, “ _And which one isn’t?_ ”

Just then, a soaking wet Winter Soldier rose like a living nightmare over the side of the building. His face was grim, resolute, and he had a rifle in his hand. His blue eyes were particularly sharp against his new eye mask, and he didn’t look happy to have to climb up without the help of Wade’s handy dandy tool belt.

The criminal held out five seconds under that vintage Blue Steel stare. “…yeah, okay,” Thief #1 said quietly. He shrugged, lifting both hands. “I’ll submit. Turn myself in. Whaddaya wanna know? There’s five of us. I can tell you names, addresses, what they ate this morning-”

“Everything,” Bucky Barnes growled, stalking over to crouch next to his prey.

Paling at the proximity, Thief #1 kept his word and spilled the beans. All of them.

Wade was still fuming about it ten minutes later when they got the guy off the roof and back on an accessible street corner.

He griped about it just as the po-po pulled up. “I chase those bastards for 10 fucking blocks and they ignore me, but Sergeant Goldilocks blinks and suddenly they’re all outstanding citizens?”

They did more than ignore him. Thief #3 had laughed and used his face as a launching pad for her flight. Wade’s ear was still growing back! Thank god for backup masks.

No longer projecting bloodlust, Bucky just shook his head. “If anyone is Goldilocks, it ain’t me.”

“Don’t take it personally, Wade,” said Captain America, pulling away from the NYPD to join them. He had a waterproof bag under his arm, his prize for grounding Thief #4 with a well-aimed throw of his iconic shield. No art was stolen that day—not under his watch. “Bucky just has more presence than you.”

Bucky’s neck was bent slightly towards the ground, but Wade knew a smirk when he saw one.

Wade crossed his arms over his chest, working up to a major sulk. “You’re just shiny and new, grandpa,” he accused bitingly. “One of these days, you’re gonna be dismissed as an eccentric extra—no more, no less.”

“Eccentric?” Bucky lifted his gaze, unimpressed. “Says the kid wearing bright red, day in and day out like a-”

“Dildo, condom, gimp, generic sex toy?” Wade offered generously.

“-assclown.”

Wade blinked hard at that. And then, after a beat, he stepped back, a hand fluttering over his chest. “ _Ouch._ I thought everyone was nice in the 40’s!”

“You thought wrong.” Bucky lifted a flat hand about shoulder level. “Remember a little Austrian guy? His mama called him Adolf.”

The 40’s had HYDRA too, now that Wade thought about it. Wade didn’t bring it up. He had some tact. Not a lot! But just enough to know that name dropping a guy’s number one piece of nightmare fuel was so not the way to get on his good side. Especially not with the American Dream hovering, following their back and forth like a spectator at a ping-pong match.

So Wade changed the subject. “You know, I met him once.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky said with some interest.

“Oof, that’s true too.” Wade rubbed the side of his head. “That’s not canonical this time around, is it? This writer retconned it in favor of more angst for the Wadester. Dick move, too.” Wade shot Bucky two finger guns and a wink. “Almost as bad as you gettin’ fridged, my dude. Literally. And metaphorically-”

“The hell you saying?” Bucky rumbled, looking pissed.

“Knock it off, you two,” Steve finally piped up, looking reluctantly amused. “Come on. Let’s check out the tech.”

Wade angled a hand next to his mouth, hissing, “My point being, you were very good for his character development-”

“Wade!”

Wade hurried after Steve like a good little Avenger. “Coming!”

The NYPD had stacked the confiscated jet boots on the hood of a cruiser. A black van with a SHIELD logo was parked parallel to it, blocking off the rest of the street. SHIELD technicians were checking and packing the boots into nondescript black boxes, and one of them dutifully ran off a list of specs to Steve. After Steve scrutinized a pair, he angled them towards Bucky, a silent question. The man just shook his head. They didn’t match anything in their system—public or not.

Wade poked at one idly until it sparked, which earned him a mighty glare from a SHIELD tech as well as the pointed removal of all boots from his reach. Wade just sighed at yet another lost dream.

Anyhoo, it was only a matter of time before SHIELD figured out the thieves’ suppliers. Given the shakiness and cobbled together look of their design, it was likely they weren’t dealing with someone with a lot of resources behind them. That was refreshing; Wade hated going up against billionaire villains.

“Wild thing to do, robbing a museum like that,” Bucky mused quietly as the boots were finally packed away. When Steve just looked at him, Bucky shrugged. “What? If you were suddenly given a jetpack, wouldn’t you want to rob a bank instead?”

“Right?” Wade said delightedly. He withered under Steve’s blank stare. “But I’d feel bad about it afterwards. Honest!”

It was a lie. A bald-faced fucking lie. It was a dearly held desire of his, to eventually Scrooge McDuck his way through an entire vault of money—curse this modern society that put wealth on plastic cards!

“You know,” Steve said tiredly, “I might be a bit dated in my references, but I’m pretty sure that when you lie, you’re supposed to cross your fingers behind you. Not in front of you.” Oopsie poopsie. Wade grinned winningly, trying to look innocent. Steve just sighed. “Really, Wade? Nothing about that scenario trips up your conscience?”

“Conscience,” Bucky echoed. “Is that what we’re calling Spider-Man now?”

Wade rubbed the back of his neck. He was actually starting to feel a little bad now? He was used to not syncing up with Captain America’s indefatigable moral code, but it was worse with an audience. Even worse, Bucky seemed to know how to poke and prod—and practically no one was off limits.

And Steve, of all people, seemed to get that. He pivoted his attention, shooting his oldest friend a long look. Bucky, who’d started this, was now getting the full force of Steve’s patriotic disapproval. “…Regardless, theft is wrong on all levels. It isn’t _ever_ a victimless crime.”

It was the kind of absolute, heroic statement that made Wade feel about ten inches tall. But next to him, Bucky just rasped out a long, dry laugh, and suddenly the target on Wade’s back skipped merrily over to Steve instead.

“Feeling sticky fingered, punk?”

“No,” Steve said too quickly. His fingers flexed on the waterproof bag—the stolen art.

Bucky leaned forward, looming a bit. He squinted at Steve suspiciously. “…Didja look at it?”

Steve hesitated. Then he held the bag at arm’s length. “…No,” he said, again unconvincing.

Bucky snorted, then cast a side glance at Wade. “Don’t let that face fool you, kid.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, lifting his eyebrows innocently. “Back in the day, just how _many_ government officials did you lie to, Steve? For historical record, obviously-”

“The laws were stupid,” Steve replied, tipping his chin up. “I was as able bodied as the rest of them.”

As it turned out, Steve knew where to poke and prod too. Bucky’s fake ease immediately burst into tension. “Says who,” he barked. They glared at each other hotly.

Nothing made Wade feel young again like an 80-year-old grudge.

“Um. Mr. America, sir,” a NYPD officer said, blushing fiercely. The middle-aged woman looked like she wanted to be anywhere else but here, smackdab in the middle of an Avengers standoff. “We need to return the art. If you don’t mind…”

“I- of course,” Steve said awkwardly. After a beat, he handed over the art, shrugging off his discomfort and slipping straight back into business. “Anything else stolen?”

“No, sir. Everything in the Fisk collection is accounted for.”

“Great. We have some-” Steve paused at Bucky’s slight head shake. “Sorry, _I_ have some information to give you about this gang. If you’ll take me to the commanding officer-”

“Of course, sir.”

Steve walked away with the officer to speak with the ranking cop, leaving Bucky and Wade behind. It was a quick exchange of information—more of an FYI than a full report—but Bucky’s mood seemed to sour. Thinking that maybe Bucky was reacting poorly to the momentary loss of his star-spangled security blanket, Wade offered to pay for dinner for the three of them. Wade didn’t need as many calories as the two super soldiers—or Peter, for that matter—but he was seriously considering changing over to a hobbit’s diet. Running after criminals was tiring.

But Bucky up and walked away from him, disappearing around the corner without a word.

Before Wade could really get in touch with his inner “child left alone in a supermarket”, Steve came up from behind him, clapping his shoulder companionable. The man’s blue eyes dropped to where Bucky had been.

Steve didn’t seem surprised. “He went home already, huh?” He released Wade. He started walking down the street back to his idling motorcycle. “It’s the rain. He hates it. Always makes him feel his- well…” At a loss for a descriptor, Steve waved at his own arm tellingly, expression a bit pinched.

Wade nodded absently before scuttling after Steve. “Is this working?” he blurted out, hurrying so they were walking shoulder to shoulder. “I know stopping some art thieves is below your paygrade, but-”

Steve stopped mid-step, frowning. “Hey,” he interrupted. “It might not be what the Avengers are used to, but our neighborhood is never beneath us. And it never will be.”

Despite the reassuring tone, Wade had his doubts. Here Steve was, a man who went toe-to-toe with HYDRA, with AIM, with all the other baddies he faced. How could he not look at a wet, horrible night like this and think _what a waste of time_? And even if Steve was okay patrolling the neighborhoods, responding to local crimes, then, shit, Bucky must-

“-fucking hate me,” Wade said earnestly. Bucky just spent the better part of a year dismantling global criminal empire. Wade’s first real conversation with him was forcefully recruiting him to help investigate a petty ass theft. In the goddamn rain, of all things. 

“Bucky doesn’t mind either, trust me.” Steve paused thoughtfully. “Although… yeah. You’re not really his favorite person.”

“Fuck me,” Wade said with feeling. He was so getting shanked in the middle of the night. 

“It’s getting better?” Steve offered. “Believe it or not, he’s jealous of you.”

Wade stared at him with disbelief. Then he crossed his arms, weirdly hurt. “I get it. You’re yanking my chain because no one would ever believe me.”

“Come on, Wade,” Steve said patiently. “Think about it. You two have very similar backgrounds. Similar struggles.”

Wade made a face. He was so not about to bro up with the _Winter Soldier_ over their shared torture experiences/Sailor Moon transformation montages into international serial killers. After all, Wade had enjoyed large parts of that journey, a fact that didn’t impress any of his new allies.

Steve continued. “But he looks at you and sees a stable and changed man.”

“He needs his damn eyes fixed.”

Steve grinned briefly. “Maybe,” he allowed. “But see it from his point of view.” Serious now, Steve gripped Wade’s shoulder, gazing at him carefully. “A couple of years ago, you weren’t a friend. You were a mission objective. A villain. A threat to be eliminated. Just like he was. Now you’re an Avenger. You’re a _hero_. The world knows it. You have the trust of many. And, on top of all that, you have Peter.”

Wade stilled at that, his whole body stiffening. He quickly dropped his head. He thought of his darling contorted in on himself, huffing for anxiety-soothing breath in a goddamn paper bag, and Wade flinched.

Not seeming to notice, Steve shrugged, releasing Wade slowly. “Bucky sees where you’re at and has no idea how to get there. But he will.”

Bucky and Wade weren’t the only ones around here that were changing. Steve was too. Never unkind, Steve used to be somewhat hard to approach nevertheless. He was thoughtful, pragmatic, empathetic, but ultimately stoic and grim.

He smiled more nowadays. Teased more often. Joked quite frequently.

Wade wondered if Bucky knew that. If Bucky knew he wasn’t the only one trying to catch up.

“The art. What was it about anyway?”

Steve brightened visibly at the topic. “It was—well, it was no artist I recognize. A lot has changed since the '40’s. I don’t know why it was stolen. Probably wouldn’t have fetched a high price anyway.” He frowned thoughtfully. “The subject was a… modern woman? Very beautiful. But… sad, somehow. Lonely. Like maybe things weren’t working out to her liking.”

Wade could relate.

Above them, it continued to rain.

-

Peter had a keyring that had seen better days.

He’d gotten it during a Stark Expo when he was five—one of his few memories of his parents—and it once held a light-up arc reactor. No, not the one Tony used for his Iron Man suits. The original one. That big, beautiful, complicated monstrosity that Tony blew up to defeat his first major rival, Obadiah Stane.

Peter adored that thing, growing up. The real one and the keyring fake. However, ironically, the little toy ran out of power before he turned six, and he lost it—broke it—well before his ninth birthday. The only thing left from it was a bent, discolored link. Probably for the best. Peter didn’t even want to imagine the crap Tony would give him if he saw that tiny, silly thing, that one undeniable piece of evidence that Peter was a Tony fan well before Iron Man blasted into the picture.

But the keyring itself was _fine_ , and Peter had never been able to toss broken—but functional—items in the trash. Not even when he was a child.

So there it was, a keyring he’d held on to for 24 years. It had seen him through a lot—the successes, the failures. The hirings, the firings. Getting into college, dropping out of college. Leaving home, not having a home, and having one again. The laughs, the birthdays, the blood, and the tears.

On his keyring, Wade’s key was the only one that stood out currently. Not only was it a silver key amongst a whole lot of copper, it was also the only key that had a rubber key cap. It was bright red and covered with pink hearts, looking like something straight out of a no-tell-motel, but Peter didn’t toss it. And today, he gripped that key cap and stuck the key itself into Wade’s door, letting himself inside. He dropped his work bag by the door and, with a guilty smirk, waved a hand over a panel.

All at once, the apartment lit up.

It was a quintessentially _excessive_ New York City apartment, and it only highlighted how different Wade and Peter were. Peter had held on to the same, tiny apartment for the last seven years, but Wade? Wade had changed seven apartments in just the last eleven months. He’d grown as a person, no longer destroying the space and leaving the wreckage for the landlord to deal with. But he still seemed restless, like he was looking for something _more_ in the place he called home.

Peter shouldn’t get attached, he knew. He hated how much he liked this one with its uniform furniture and tiny steps going up and down the living room area. Wade’s kitchen—done up in classy blacks, whites, and grays—looked like it came out of a magazine, and, conversely, his decadent, expensive bedroom set looked like it came out of a porno.

But what Peter liked best was the windows, mostly because they were everywhere. He’d also secretly liked the small balcony the last apartment had, but there was something special about turning off all the lights at night, sitting on a couch, and staring at his city. He loved looking out over the skyline. It felt like free-falling without the nagging worry in his head of what he was going to find on the way down.

He was palming the back of one of those couches when his cell phone rang. He answered it without looking at the display. “Hello?”

“Well, well, well. Hello to you too, loyal and humble employee,” Harry Osborn said in a chipper voice. Peter immediately scowled. “As your gracious… What are people calling it now… grandboss? Anyway, as your kind and charitable grandboss, I just wanted to remind you that you are very close to your PTO cap.” Peter could imagine him swiveling on his desk chair, a pretentious finger in the air. “Once you hit your cap, you will no longer be able to accrue time off. Please consult the PTO policy located in your employee handbook, which is located in chapter blah, blah, blah-”

“Fuck off,” Peter groused, squinting at nothing. He hopped over the back of the couch, then dropped back into it.

“Oh?” There was a squeak on the other end, like Harry had moved from lounging on his office chair to sitting straight up. Peter could hear the damn grin in his voice. “Is that the way you talk to your superiors?”

“I would never speak to Gwen with such disrespect.”

“Hah! Dick. No one believes me, you know. It’s poor Peter this, and precious Peter that-”

Peter used to work very closely with Harry. Then again, Peter also used to be Oscorp’s version of an executive assistant. Peter’s whole department of “assistants” had reported not to their assigned executive, but rather straight to Norman Osborn, as the role was more of a corporate form of an Internal Affairs department than anything else. Peter had always thought it was just one more way to make sure that executives were behaving ethically, but its real purpose was to make sure that no executive cut into Norman’s profit margin. He’d failed to see that.

Never one to throw out a useful tool, Norman counted on Peter’s own brand of morality and ethics when it came to finding dirt on misbehaving executives. He was always very good at manipulating people.

In Norman’s absence, however, Harry had dissolved the department. But there was a strong need for something in its place. Norman—and the Green Goblin—had funneled a ton of research and funds into personal and secret projects. An initial assessment of the damage had projected that Oscorp would fail in the next ten years over any number of the ticking time bombs Norman had left in their research labs and finances.

To try and head that off, Harry instead created an interdepartmental review team to internally audit the company’s activities. The team included Gwen Stacy, one of Oscorp’s lead researchers, Adam Wakefield, a junior member of the finance team, Seymour O’Reilly, a mid-level IT tech, and Peter himself. It also contracted with outside legal and investigative counsel—Matt Murdock and Jessica Jones included. Despite annoyed rumblings by multiple corners of the company, the team had already saved them 50 million dollars in diverted funds and averted lawsuits.

It was worlds away from the Executive Assistant role of last year. Instead of being a secretive—and, frankly, backstabbing—process, it was open and transparent, and Peter couldn’t be prouder of them for it. But that was only one part of Peter’s changed position. When Peter wasn’t buried neck deep in Oscorp’s dizzying finances and various research projects, he was officially working under Gwen Stacy, learning the ins and outs of a corporate research lab. She was his boss, his supervisor, and even his friend.

So no. Peter didn’t see much of Harry anymore in an official capacity. His other coworkers had lots of opinions on that. But it was the best kind of demotion. In demoting him, Harry increased his wages, gave him more interesting projects, and assigned him an extremely flexible schedule.

The kind of schedule that could let a guy get away with being Spider-Man in the daytime.

Peter could have only dreamed up such an arrangement, but here he was, living it. The only thing that would ruin it was if Norman Osborn reclaimed his throne, and, with SHIELD unwilling to go public with the identity of the Green Goblin, that was always a possibility. To everyone else, Norman was taking an extended medical leave in Switzerland.

In any case, being best friends with the interim CEO certainly had its perks. As well as its concerns.

“Your sudden love of self-care is going to get you in hot water with your board,” Peter said grimly, rubbing behind his ear.

Harry paused mid-rant about the things people said about Peter behind his back. “…I’m not following.”

“Oh really? What about the quarterly bonuses?”

Harry made a dismissive noise, his chair squeaking again. “A couple thousand a quarter never hurt anybody!”

“A couple of thousand times 900 New York employees, Harry,” Peter said tiredly. It was times like this that Peter wished he was still assigned to be Harry’s shadow. Even when Harry hated him, he did so love having a sounding board for these kinds of decisions.

He could have come up with a graph or something. Maybe a steep line showing the board’s rising bloodlust as it directly correlated with the amount of money Harry threw at his innocent, unsuspecting staff.

“Eh,” Harry muttered, sounding disinterested. He may have grown up in a gilded castle with a monster roaming the halls—but a castle was a castle. Harry was always excessive. “It’s morale building, right? We’ve had a rough year, ever since- Anyway, don’t worry about me. It’s like I always say! I’ve been trained since birth to ward off board members.” Harry cleared his throat, uncomfortable. He dropped his voice. “So just… think about that vacation, yeah? So many things to do and see. Live a little, you know? For yourself, for once.”

Harry might be frequently out of touch with most of the world, but that had never stopped him from being a warm, considerate friend that Peter could appreciate… _if_ there wasn’t that suspicious, leading pause.

Harry was scrambling. “Like if you, I don’t know, wanted to, um…”

“Get married?” Peter finished flatly.

“Married! Yeah.” Harry sounded relieved. 

“Randomly.”

“Randomly,” Harry echoed awkwardly, full of bluster. “To someone—anyone really. No one specific! And you absolutely do not have to marry that _someone specific_ -”

Speechless, Peter covered his face with his hand for a moment. God, Harry was trying so hard not to say Wade. Harry really hated Wade, and the fact that he was trying to be supportive of a hypothetical wedding to Wade was excoriating. For more reasons than one.

“Stop,” Peter said, exhausted. “I hear you. I’ll… look at the schedules. Gotta go.”

Reluctantly, Harry said goodbye, sounding worried again. Peter dropped his phone to the couch, rubbing his eyes. Then, grumbling quietly, he pushed himself to his feet, walking over to Wade’s bedroom. He took a seat on the corner of Wade’s bed, then let himself fall backwards. It was a gentle, comfortable fall, given freely and with advanced notice like most things Wade offered him.

That was, except for a sudden and random marriage proposal in the middle of a routine patrol.

“Fuck,” Peter said with feeling. Guilt ate at him.

How the hell did Harry know? Peter sure as hell didn’t tell anyone about it (or his horrible, awful response to it). Tugging at the collar of his shirt, Peter grimaced at the ceiling, resisting the urge to smother himself with one of the (too many) pillows on this stupid, comfortable, amazing bed.

Ugh. 

Harry and Wade did not get along. That was mostly because of what went down last year. 12 months ago, Deadpool was 99% certain that Harry was Spider-Man and was tasked to prove it. And what was his strategy?

Sitting and waiting. _Patiently._ And all of that, smackdab in the middle of Oscorp where anyone could see him.

Harry was horrified, and his somewhat immature and cowardly response was to fling Wade at the rest of the company instead, hoping his ambitious executives would provide a decent enough distraction to allow Harry a temporary reprieve from their peaceful invader. This was how Peter and Wade met, coincidentally. Wade was being head hunted by those same executives for some Oscorp contract where Wade would exclusively perform assignments for Oscorp that were too dangerous for their usual employees.

Despite the wooing, the wining, and the dining, Wade never did sign over his loyalties. Instead, Wade bided his time, wanting “Spidey” to come clean on his own terms, rather than someone else’s.

In the meantime, he pestered, followed, pranked, flirted, and messed around with the real Spidey, completely oblivious to the truth right in front of him, which was… kind of funny, in hindsight. In fact, Peter would have probably enjoyed Wade’s ignorance a little more than was strictly kind, had things not deteriorated so badly later. The thing about Wade that most people missed—and that Peter admired—was how unbelievably sharp he was, how clued in he was, how very strategic he could be. Peter didn’t often get the chance to pull one over on his boyfriend. Wade was too often ten steps ahead, patiently waiting for Peter to catch up.

All in all, it probably didn’t help that, secret identity aside, Peter was really bad at being sneaky _and_ at guessing at what other people were going to do. If he’d been better at either of those things, maybe he would have been able to see Wade’s proposal coming. Maybe he could have responded differently. More thoughtfully. More kindly.

Peter sighed, swinging an arm over his face.

Then, across the apartment, the front door opened. Peter froze, lifting his arm a bit. The sharp stench of ozone and rocket fuel hit his nose, and Wade came suddenly around the corner, drenched, distracted, and looking at something on his phone.

Peter could see the second he registered the presence on his bed, how quickly he tensed—then grinned, white eyes creasing in his expressive mask. “Didn’t trip over your workbag this time, huh? Didn’t even think you were here.”

When Peter didn’t respond, Wade dropped his weapons noisily on the ground, hopping up on the bed next to him. He struck a pose, laying flat on one side with a bent arm holding up his head. He smoothed out the blanket between them suggestively, a charming move that never failed to make him look like an utter jackass.

His voice deepened. “Why, hi there. Fancy meeting you here. Come here… often?”

Peter just… couldn’t think of what to say. What would be right to say. Sure, Peter knew the script—this would usually be the point where Peter would let loose a quip.

_Not recently_ , he could say. _Why, you want to change that?_

He could just stick with the script. It would be simple. Strings free. No consequences. He could lean into that flirtation, into Wade, into the blank slate he offered. Wade had a tendency to try and make things so, so easy for Peter. Even when Peter didn’t deserve it.

Maybe especially when Peter didn’t deserve it.

Peter sat up, putting his back to Wade. “Figured we could start from your place,” he said a little too quickly, a little too harshly. “That okay?”

The mood shifted, then the bed behind him. Peter hated every moment of it.

“Sure. What are we starting?” Wade asked curiously.

Peter looked back at him. Wade was laying down, gazing at him placidly. Then he suddenly sucked in a breath. He shot up, bouncing once on the bed before crashing on the floor. He recovered with misplaced dignity and cupped Peter’s face between his hands, standing over him.

“Don’t tell me I forgot something!” Wade pleaded, frantic. “Fuck my swiss cheese brain! What was it, honey badger? You can tell me… Was it our anniversary? Your birthday? My birthday? Hamilton tickets?!”

At this point, Peter’s face was so scrunched up between Wade’s palms, he felt like a chipmunk. “It’s nothing important,” he said, pulling free. “Tonight was just dinner with May and Ben. That’s all.”

Wade froze. Then he chuckled darkly. He reached behind his own back, digging for something in his waistband. “Nuh-uh,” he said fiercely. “That’s _Thursday_. I know because I put it on my calendar.” With that, he then flicked an open, hand-sized Hello Kitty day planner in Peter’s face.

Sure enough, he’d marked down Thursday, circling the monthly dinner date in pink pen. In the middle of it was a cartoon version of Deadpool destroying a whole dish of Uncle Ben’s signature enchiladas. A miniature Spidey looked on from a safe perch on Wednesday, either impressed or disgusted. 

“Today is Thursday,” Peter said slowly. Then, reaching out, he flipped a page. Spooky pumpkins in orange glitter pen were replaced with a well-drawn turkey dinner that had, strangely, Cable’s head attached to it. A mini-Deadpool and a mini-Spidey were dressed as a pile of mashed potatoes and a cornbread muffin, respectively. “The month is also November.”

Distressed, Wade yanked the planner back to himself. Then he started flipping through the pages. “We missed Halloween?” he bleated, sad.

Peter found himself smiling at Wade’s bowed head. “It’s okay,” he said, gentling. This freaking… _guy._ “No point in celebrating it anyway.”

Halloween hadn’t been a great night. Tombstone had slammed him into a shipping container, Sandman had robbed three banks, and a mugging victim had shown his appreciation by hurling a rotten fish at Peter’s face. He’d been pitifully grateful to limp through Wade’s window, only to see Wade passed out on the couch and cuddling a unicorn. He hadn’t been in the mood to celebrate.

“But… _couple’s costumes_ ,” Wade said mournfully, making grabby hands at the missed opportunity. 

“Aw. Never happening, by the way.” Wade pouted. Chuckling, Peter patted Wade’s arm and stood. “Anyway. Don’t worry about today. You don’t have to come this time. I can go by myself.”

Just like that, Wade’s deep-felt angst disappeared in a snap. “No, I’m good to go. Just, uh- give me a minute?” There was a pleading tone there Peter hadn’t expected.

Armed with Peter’s reluctant head nod, Wade hopped over the closet, pulling off his mask. Then he yanked off the top of his suit, trying to find something suitably casual. He tossed the rejects over his shoulder, muttering to himself. Peter leaned out of the way of a sequined projectile, stepped aside, and just… looked. 

His eyes lingered over Wade’s strong—scarred waist and his broad—scarred shoulders. He had a certain… affection for the suit, don’t get him wrong. But there was something else about so casual, so intimate about his nakedness, like he hadn’t spent most of their first few months together blinding Peter every time he took off a layer.

Plus, there was the very real fact that removing his mask always seemed to provoke a sharp melancholy in Wade, a self-conscious self-hatred. The mask—more than the suit—seemed to be the thing that bound together Wade’s self-esteem.

But today, Wade was mumbling along to a Rihanna song, gyrating in a distracted way as he dug deeper and deeper in his closet. He was in a good mood.

God, Peter _missed_ him. So, so much.

There was a new distance between them that had never been there, and Peter hated every minute of it. Sure, he knew part of it was him, part of it was his own decisions to pull away. But it was Wade’s decision not to patrol with him anymore. It was also Wade’s decision to hang out with X-Force again, claiming it was time to get the band back together.

Half-jokingly, Peter had offered to join up. Wade had quickly shot him down in a panic, making Peter worry more than he ever had before.

Wade turned slightly, and the sight of red pulled Peter out of his thoughts. Old blood was caked down the side of Wade’s face, collecting and drying thickly under his jaw. Everything from his cheekbone to his ear—and then some—was bright pink and weirdly scarless. And itchy, apparently, because Wade thought nothing of giving this brand new skin a ruthless scratch.

What in the world had he’d been doing that he’d lost an ear and part of his cheek? Whatever it was, it made Peter feel horrible. Here he was, being Mopey Moperson all while Wade was getting hurt. Good job, Parker.

Finally catching Peter’s eyes, Wade shot him a saucy wink. Peter smiled back reflexively, painfully, then walked out of the bedroom entirely. 

He rubbed his face, berating himself. Maybe that was why Wade stopped patrolling with him. Healing factor or not, Peter had never been able to stop worrying about him. And it had to be patronizing… right? Wade had been kicking ass and taking names well before his mutation had triggered. All Peter had to his own name was instincts and stubbornness and the self-serving giddiness that came with flying and falling at the same time. Wade, on the other hand, had training and skills behind him and at least twice the amount of perseverance.

Who wanted to patrol with a guy who would freak out at every temporary injury? Not Peter. Not Wade either.

A hand settled on Peter’s shoulder. Peter looked up from his hands wordlessly to see Wade shooting him a flat frown. He was wearing nice slacks and a soft gray hoodie. No mask for the public today either. Peter swallowed. Usually, that made Peter want to crowd Wade into a corner and distract him from whatever he was doing. Today, well….

Whatever Wade saw in Peter’s face made him back off slightly, taking his hand off of Peter’s shoulder. “Ready?”

-

They took the subway, then a taxi to Queens. Wade had the driver drop them off at a store down the street and around the corner to grab some alcohol for dinner. He spent an exorbitant amount of time hemming and hawing over the limited selection. Peter just plodded along after him, stewing over his own thoughts.

He wanted to tangle his hand in Wade’s, just to be with him. He almost did just that, but then saw his own pale, frowning face in the security mirror all these places seemed to have.

His chest started tightening, a familiar tug, so he went outside and just focused on breathing.

In, out. In, out. In, out…

When they had entered, the store owner had called Wade Deadpool. Even maskless, he was well known. Too well known. Peter, on the other hand….

The door jingled open. Wade covered Peter’s face with his whole hand, and Peter stood there stupidly, taking it, his spidey sense not even registering the barest tingle of a threat.

“…you smell like asphalt,” Peter decided, his voice muffled against Wade’s palm.

The hand removed itself. “Yeah, well, you smell like ass,” Wade countered like a child.

“Do _not_ ,” Peter retorted. If anything, he reeked of the sea. The smelly, stinky, fishy, awful, salty sea. He’d splashed on more than his usual cologne, and that was after he jumped in the shower. The next time Ryker’s had a riot, he was going to sit it out. They seemed to have everything under control.

Wade snickered. “You’re right. I’m a liar.” He then buried his head in Peter’s shoulder and took such a heavy whiff of him, Peter had to duck and dance away, a hand clapped over his neck. What a weird-pleasant-weird tingling. A foot out of reach, Wade was shooting him a crooked, goofy grin.

Peter could feel his face heat up. Embarrassed, Peter spun around and started walking away at a fast clip. Behind him, Wade gasped in outrage and skipped after him, bear hugging him when he caught up. He squeezed Peter to him contently, fitting his chin over Peter’s head. Because Peter was stubborn, they hobbled together a few more feet, clasped together like that.

Huffing, Peter took advantage of an extra wobbly step, spinning out from under Wade’s arms. He skipped away a few steps, attempting a stern expression. Wade seemed to take that as an invitation to cuddle up, looping their arms together like they were lovers on their honeymoon, and Peter…

Peter didn’t correct him. Might have grabbed on a bit.

Just a bit. If only for that feeling you got when you corrected a dislocated shoulder. Sure, it hurt, but suddenly, everything was back where it was supposed to be.

They walked the rest of the way to Ben and May Parker’s home like that, the glass of Wade’s purchases clicking together rhythmically.

Ben Parker met them at the street level, arms crossed over his chest like he hadn’t been waiting for them. “Well, well, well,” he said flatly. “If it isn’t my favorite nephew.” He paused, then squinted exaggeratedly. “Oh, and Peter too, huh?”

“Haha,” Peter said flatly. “This joke again.”

Ben’s wrinkled, weathered face broke out into a wide, sunny smile.

“Uncle Ben!” Wade tossed his bag at Peter like he was a coat rack and hopped over the Parker’s small fence. He swooped the elderly Parker up in a giant hug, lifting the man off his feet. Ben, always a mellow, even-paced guy, couldn’t suppress his boyishly gleeful laugh at that display of strength. “ _Uncle Ben._ Ohmygosh, it’s been so long. Too long? Wait, I think I saw you in the store! …or that might have just been the guy on the rice.”

Ben laughed again, clapping Wade’s shoulders as Wade let him down. “Good to see you too, Wade,” he said warmly. Wade was beaming, and Peter was half-smiling himself. Some guys had it so easy. Peter got his own hug from his uncle eventually, and they were ushered inside.

Ben Parker was Uncle Ben to most everyone who knew him, but Peter was the only one around who could claim that relationship as blood. Not that he deserved any special treatment. No, he’d squandered that relationship for over ten years, hurt and seething over what he’d seen as rejection.

May had been diagnosed with cancer when Peter was just 12, and paying for her care soon became Peter’s all-consuming obsession. Ben had objected. Strenuously. Ben just wanted him to live his childhood to the fullest, but Peter had resented that, not recognizing that he was walking down the very path Ben had tried to steer him away from. Far from being the unsupportive father figure Peter thought of him as, Ben had just tried to protect him. Hell, he’d known about Peter’s mutation before Peter was even Spider-Man, and he never told a soul. Even May had only been brought into the fold last February—and boy, was that a fight.

Peter had anticipated a second round of that fight in April when he finally introduced them to Wade. Despite a rather good first introduction, both of Peter’s relatives were wary.

However kindly Ben treated Wade now, he was still the hardest one to win over. May, on the other hand, had been strangely satisfied to learn that her nephew was dating one of the most dangerous Avengers around.

“He can’t stop you,” she’d said at the time frankly, patting Wade’s forearm. “But if someone else does, well… he’s a lot more well equipped than me to make them regret it… isn’t he?”

Starry eyed, Wade had been on the verge of promising all of that—and more—when Peter wrested control of the conversation away from that, thank you very much. As much as Peter could—and did—argue with her worldview, what she said just put words to the fear they’d all been carrying for a while.

Life was strange, cruel, and unusual. How could it not be, especially after what happened last year? Norman’s horrid abuse of his own son; Gwen’s close brushes with death with a brainwashed Harry; all the people the Green Goblin has indiscriminately poisoned with Vitanova. On top of that, Peter had willingly chosen an existence that put him in conflict with those who tried to make the world a worse place. Of course May would find some comfort in seeing her nephew date a former assassin and mercenary.

But Peter had never been the sort of person who liked to fight fire with fire.

The Parkers outdid themselves this time with the dinner spread. The kitchen table groaned under the weight of enchiladas, tacos, chicken, and chips. Peter was secretly relieved Wade had come with him. May and Ben were still trying to figure out Peter’s actual caloric needs, and they seemed determined to make up for the years he’d been underfed.

The night went well, the conversations and company warm and inviting. Wade and Peter told sanitized stories of recent exploits—apparently, the blood from earlier was from an art heist with rocket boots. Ben was enthralled.

As Ben shared with Wade a homemade set of scrabble pieces made by one of the neighbor kids in their shop class, May wandered back into the kitchen. Peter watched her touch the wall, noticing she was a little tipsy. He followed her, frowning when he noticed she was pouring herself a small glass of wine. She was thinner and paler than the last time he’d seen her, and her dark hair was short, curling around her ears.

“Should you be drinking on chemo?”

May froze. Then she laughed softly. “At some point, you gotta let me fall flat on my face, Peter. I hear it’s character building.” She turned to face him, glass in hand. A frown steadily took over her smile. “Look at you. Everyone’s having a good time, and you’re hovering, preparing for the worst.” She pushed the drink into his hands. “You need this more than I do.”

Peter stared at the red liquid, not sure what to do with it. She was right—about the hypervigilance, that is. Now that he was paying attention, his neck was tight. His free hand was fisted. Despite the abundance of furniture options, he hadn’t sat down once, not even during dinner. He also hadn’t been able to come here without his web shooters, and he was never not facing a window.

He was ready for an invasion, _and he hated it._

Peter shook his head slowly and passed it back to her. “I metabolize it too fast.” He sank his trembling hands into his pockets.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” May said, like he was disproving her belief in Santa. “You’re friends with a bunch of superheroes. Are you telling me none of those knuckleheads figured out a way around that?”

“…Stawski Spirytus.”

“Huh?”

“Polish grain alcohol,” Peter clarified. He freed one of his hands to mime drinking. “You have to drink about half a bottle. Neat, not recommended for non-super stomachs. Then you’d feel it for about an hour or so.”

He had a bottle in his apartment, unopened. It came to him courtesy of Bucky Barnes, who’d taken one look at Peter’s uncovered eyes and saw a kindred spirit. Of sorts. They weren’t buddy-buddy or anything. But neither of them slept easy at night and, no, neither of them wanted to talk about it. 

Peter looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “Asgardian ale works too. Tastes better too. And you only hallucinate Yggdrasil about, oh, every third or fourth cup-”

May cracked a smile, shoving at his arm. “Oh, to hell with you,” she said fondly. “You’re really a pain in the ass, you know that?”

Peter grinned back at her. His chest felt tight again, but in a good way. He was grateful for every day and moment he had with her and Ben, even if he didn’t do the greatest job showing it. On very limited resources, they had taken a kid who wasn’t theirs, and they loved him and raised him and forgave him for all of his bad decisions. They meant the world to him.

Which was why he needed to be careful, and why he needed to be vigilant. Too many bad choices could bring the wrong people to his aunt’s doorstep.

“Peter?” Wade called out from the other room. “Peter, come in here and tell your uncle that bodacious is an actual word.”

“I don’t trust him, Wade,” Ben said as Peter came in, “and you know why?” He pointed a finger at Peter. “I don’t trust him because that is the gleeful face of a man who is about to lie to his tender-hearted uncle about the state of the modern English language. Peter, please. Prove me wrong.”

Peter froze. He felt the same way he did when he was eight and caught raiding the shelves for sweets. Finally, he shrugged. “…oops?” He really had no defense. He’d fully intended to lie.

“First used in 1832,” May said behind Peter, reading off her phone, “the word bodacious was made popular by films such as _Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure_ -”

“Yeah!” Wade crowed, pumping his fist. “Suck it, Ben! Respectfully, of course.”

Ben narrowly won the impromptu Scrabble game and celebrated his victory by bringing out the dessert. As the resident chef of the house, he was generally more of a cake kind of guy, but he’d tried out a caramel apple empanada recipe just for Wade. Peter had to physically hold Wade back from licking the plate.

Before Peter knew it, it started getting late. May piled them up with leftovers, leaving some tacos and chips on top. Knowing them, all of the easy to grab food was going to be gone before they made it back home. In fact, Wade was already digging through his own pile like an eager puppy who’d found an illicit stash of dog food.

That didn’t stop him from halting Peter at the door. “Don’t forget your jacket!” he said earnestly. “Don’t want you to get another cold like last month.”

It was a nice reminder. It was cold, and, yes, Peter had a tendency of leaving behind his coats. May seemed to agree, trading Peter his jacket in the doorway so he could put it on. She was smiling. “Hm. Sounds like something your husband would say.”

Peter stiffened. Worse, Wade overheard.

“Okay, good night. Thanks for the grub, see you next month!” Wade said hurriedly. Balancing his haul on his hip, he pushed them both out the door.

Peter went along with it, waving goodbye to his family. He let Wade propel him down the steps and into the street before hissing, “Wade-”

“Don’t overthink it,” Wade replied. He looked down at Peter, then his eyes skated away. “Today was a good day, wasn’t it? Let’s just… celebrate that as a win and move on.”

That said, he released Peter, sidestepping around him. He kept walking and Peter, numb, followed after him.

It felt like that hateful distance between them was even bigger than it was before.

-

There was a tired trope in romance stories where two people, destinies intertwined, first meet eyes across the room. It’s a major event, full of softened effects and pleasing background music. For both of them, that perfect moment had the whole damn world slowing down as the universe stopped to appreciate the serendipitous meeting of two star crossed individuals.

There had to be equivalent in a cop’s world, Yuri figured. Mostly because she just made eye contact with a driver at the crosswalk—and she knew she put him in jail seven weeks ago after an 11-month investigation for assault and drug trafficking charges.

Unfortunately, the recognition was mutual. Mr. Richard “Ricky” Delgado peeled off into the night, almost flattening a lone pedestrian in the process. Cursing, Yuri dropped her coffee on the ground and launched herself back in her car for a street chase that was going to get her written up five times over.

It ended when the shithead clipped a fence and spun out into an empty basketball court. He took off on foot then, disappearing into the subway system. Ricky left Yuri with tons of property damage, a nosy public, and, to make her day even worse, a popped open trunk full of fucking explosives. She'd almost had a heart attack.

She was fuming and frustrated when her backup finally came and started to canvas the scene. She tried not to snap at them. There was a residential fire several blocks away that required extensive police presence—as far as they were concerned, this was just a hit and run.

But when they started sniffing around the perp’s car idly, she put her foot down, injecting authority into her voice. “I’ll take it in. Just figure out where he went!”

The explosives were her responsibility. They weren’t live, and they didn’t have any triggers, but they still left her paranoid. She’d already submitted a request for a police tow truck to take the vehicle back to lock up. There, the bomb squad could investigate it further. She wanted to know the hows and whys herself. Ricky was an asshole of a human being, but he wasn’t the type to sell and transport weapons.

She had lots of questions for her friend, Mr. Delagdo. And she wanted the answers now.

While waiting to hear back from the beat cops and from the tow, she called her contact at Ryker’s. Last she knew, her perp was supposed to be doing five to ten years, and there was no way in hell Ricky was behaving well enough to get released early.

And, according to her contact, he was indeed still there, still cooling his heels in a cell.

Well, up until two days ago. His records indicated that he was currently at a local NYC hospital under armed guard. Unsurprisingly, Ricky was deeply involved in the recent riots. He ended up needing specialized medical attention that they could not provide at the prison.

So Yuri called the hospital. The first hospital she called had no one admitted from Ryker’s, but admitted that they had redirected the EMTs to a different hospital due to a flu outbreak. Thanking the man for his time, Yuri then called that other hospital.

That next call was not so cordial. While the person on the other end confirmed they were coordinating medical attention for Ryker’s prisoners, Yuri immediately got stonewalled when she pressed for more information. And when Yuri pressed her case, bluntly asking how well the prisoners were being supervised, she got a high horsed lecture about the reputation and integrity of the hospital, neither of which were important. Furthermore, the person on the other end reinforced that she would not be getting any more out of them without a warrant, and, that if she didn’t like it, she could contact Ryker’s directly.

So, irritated, Yuri did just that. This time, her contact sent her straight to voicemail.

Doubt started trickling in. She barely remembered the perp’s file—what-if he had a twin?

No, she would have remembered that. Ricky Delgado was a snake, the kind who threw all loyalty out the window once it no longer benefited him. Any twin of Ricky Delgado would have been his first scapegoat. No, she knew what she saw.

Five minutes later, her beat cops returned, and her mood was not improved by their report.

Ricky Delgado was gone.

“Christ,” she swore, hands on her hips. She waved them off to go ask questions of the witnesses, few as they were, and she walked back to Ricky’s car. What the hell was going on here?

“What’s the situation, boss?”

The question came from her backup. Three detectives from her precinct were approaching. She should have figured they’d come looking for her when she called it in. She fought the smile that curved her lips. She won and turned to face the three men walking up to her.

When she was promoted four years ago, she was promptly assigned one of the smallest precincts with the fewest resources. But she had also been blessed with the “Golden Trio”.

Or was it cursed? Sure as hell felt that way the first few months, anyway. Yuri hadn’t had any real time to adjust to her promotion and assignment before she was beating heads with the top performers of her new precinct. They hadn’t made it easy for her.

Ian Henderson was probably the worst, the punk. A 3rd generation cop, he’d had very strong opinions about who cops should be and how they should behave, especially in a post-Avengers kind of world. But he’d also been the first person to clue her in on the major issues hitting their part of New York City—which approaches were working and which ones were not. Henderson also had a knack for being able to step back and see the bigger picture, a rare trait that would help him greatly in a leadership position one day.

Ryan Ramirez, on the other hand, was young, new to the system, and had a lot to learn about professionalism and keeping his smart mouth shut. Yuri, not terribly professional herself, found this out the hard way. But he had a real passion for cleaning up the neighborhoods and protecting kids. He was constantly in the community, volunteering his time. His work ethic was admirable, and he didn’t complain about getting his hands dirty, no matter the cause.

The last man to round out the trio was Stanley Johannsson. In his early 40’s, Stanley was the oldest of the Golden Trio. He was a man of few words, but they were always well chosen. He brought a sense of steadiness and stability to the other two’s sometimes unorthodox approaches. And Stanley was one hell of a bulldog with information and evidence. Of all of them, Yuri hated arguing with Stanley the most—because when they disagreed, he was usually right and Yuri was usually wrong. And Yuri hated being wrong.

Of all of her people in her precinct, these were the men she trusted the most. They were good, brave cops who knew when to follow the book—and when to throw it out. So she didn’t hold back.

“Today, I met a man who should be in handcuffs—and everyone I talk to insists he still is.” Yuri shook her head. “Doesn’t add up.”

“This have to do with the Ryker’s patients?” Henderson asked intensely.

“I heard the NYPD have some resources on that,” Stanley said with a frown. “Outsourced medical treatment. Armed guards to supervise. Blunt force trauma, mostly-”

“Maybe they hired the Hulk as the prison warden,” Ramirez quipped.

Ricky sure didn’t run like a guy who had blunt force trauma, especially the kind that earned him a trip off the island. 

“Right,” Yuri said. “I think someone’s pulling a fast one on us with the Ryker medical transfers—and it has to be really well coordinated to fly under the radar of the NYPD, Ryker’s, _and_ the local hospitals.”

All four of them went silent. Then-

“Coordinated means bribes, means corruption, means criminal activity-” Ramirez said urgently.

“Visiting the hospital will-” Stanley started.

“-that’s a hell of a thing to start accusing people of,” Henderson interrupted.

“No shit,” she commented dryly. “That’s why I need to look into this some more, and why _none of you_ will be talking about it to _anyone_.”

The trio looked unsettled. Ramirez blew out his cheeks, letting air out slowly. “Spidey got a whiff of this yet?”

Yuri snorted. “I don’t even know who _I’m_ supposed to trust. I’m not going to loop Spider-Man into this until I know how deep this goes.” She shook her head. Seeing the tow truck for Ricky’s car pull up, she fetched his keys. “Anyway, thought I should warn you. While I look into things, I’m gonna need you guys to be super visible.”

Ramirez lit up. More cautiously, Henderson said, “Plain clothes, uniform, or...”

“Or,” she agreed. “Regardless of what anyone else is saying, we got jailbirds speeding around the city with explosives in their cars. They need to be reminded that this city isn’t theirs anymore.”

Even if the Spider-Man of the day was just a cop in a fake suit, she couldn’t think of a better time for Spider-Man to be seen and heard.


	3. Chapter 3

The church organ droned on and on like a dull friend with too much to say.

The procession was a mix of dull civvies and bright spandex. A mix of alignments. A mix of alliances. A combination of folk one wouldn’t expect on under the same roof until a great catastrophe. A pandemic. A shared goal.

Or a superhero version of “Big Brother”, right? That was still a thing. Still a relevant cultural reference, earth shattering as it was.

Ahem. _Anyway._

In front of Wade, let’s just say he had a veritable fuckton of applicants for a for-realsie International Justice League of Super Acquaintances. In the second row, Colossus was trying to squeeze in a tiny sliver of a spot between Hope Pym and Sue Storm. In the back row, Tony Stark spread out casually in a very non-casual, expensive suit, idly thumbing through something on his Stark phone. In between them was a mess of super freaks ranging from the ridiculously lucky (Dom) to the ridiculously good looking (Steve).

Tensions within groups were surprisingly low, but that didn’t mean anyone was sitting down any faster. Wade rubbed his gloved hands together briskly. It was his time to shine.

Wade strode into the spotlight from behind the altar. “Thank you, thank you,” he boomed majestically, raising his hands to the high wooden ceiling of this borrowed church. “Thank you all for assembling here today to, uh-” His good will and radiant generosity apparently didn’t stop the noise. So he lifted a foot and kicked over the padre’s podium.

Startled, Dopinder slammed a bunch of keys at once behind him, ending the atmospheric background music.

Incensed, Wade stabbed a finger in the crowd’s general direction as the clamor died down. “This spot is rented by the hour, and you already wasted _fifteen goddamn minutes_ saying hello to each other. You all need to shut your pieholes and sit the fuck down so we can get this over with. _Jesus Christ._ ” After a long beat, Wade turned back to the piano. “Not you, cupcake. You’re a gem. Never change.”

Dopinder beamed. “Thank you!”

When Dopinder didn’t move, Wade made an impatient gesture towards the pews. “Well? _Sit down!_ ”

Dopinder scrambled in a way that distinctly highlighted how very little scrambling there was elsewhere. Wade clearly didn’t get enough respect around here.

While the last of the lazy lemurs finally sat down, Wade lifted the podium back in place, examining it. It still stood, but there was a nasty ass crack down the middle that hadn’t been there five minutes earlier. Oopsie. It looked like he owed Father O’Brien a slightly larger donation than agreed on. _Shit._ Wade started pulling his pockets inside out, looking for extra cash.

“Right! Right. Friends, family, and… friend-adjacent people. You know who you are.” Wade paused mid-shuffle, both pockets standing out like he’d mutated some hip spurs. Then he settled his hands on the podium, voice dipping low. “We are solemnly gathered here today because each and every one of you—again, some more loved than others—are nosy _fucks_.”

There was a cough. Then a hand rose from the crowd. Without consent, a full bodied, New Zealander in bright orange pants followed it. “Question,” Russell Collins called out, already sounding obnoxious—and oh god. He’d done what he threatened to do two years ago, dying and styling his hair red like a off brand Dragonball Z character. Wade needed to remind him that his superhero name was Firefist, not _Firehair_. 

“This isn’t preschool, home slice,” Wade said, already tired.

As merciless as he was as a child, Russell continued. “Should you be cursing in a church?”

Wade chuckled darkly. “This is not a great neighborhood. I guarantee you that this church has seen more nasty than my potty mouth or your prison wallet, mi amigo.” Wade’s former future murderer/little buddy sat down, looking thoughtful. Wade rubbed his hands together again, excited. “Anyhoo, if someone would go ahead and pass out the materials-”

With a heavy sigh, Sam Wilson thunked a huge stack of written materials into Danny Rand’s chest. Danny looked down at it like he’d never seen paper before. When he tried to take one and pass it down, all he got was Reed Richards’ absent dismissal.

“In a minute,” Reed said, twenty feet of over-anxious Dad Arms wrapping around his bouncing (and delightful!) little boy. Franklin Richards spat up bubbles, gurgling loquaciously. “Should he be doing that? I’m not sure he should be doing that.”

“He’s fine,” Clint Barton said from where he was seated, one row behind Reed. He leaned forward, eyes bright. “He’s getting so big-” Clint reached out to Franklin.

But Reed quickly pulled Franklin away. “Don’t touch him. I’m not sure where you’ve been. No offense. Bacteria. Viruses. Diseases. Chemical warfare. Radiation-”

“Yeah, man, I got it,” Clint said, making a stab at empathy.

“Um,” Danny said intelligently. He was ignored.

Wanda Maximoff, feeling sorry for Danny, ripped the rest of the documentation from him with her vaguely defined mind powers and distributed it to the rest of the group efficiently—though not without one or two black eyes.

“Son of a _bitch_ -”

Wade talked over the assembled rumblings as well as the reflexive admonishments of the use of such language around a baby. “ _Anyway!_ Anyway, I’ve talked to most of you individually, and let’s be real—the only reason why you’re all here because I would like to marry the fuck out of everyone’s favorite Spider-Dude. This is obvious, right?”

“Painfully,” Domino commented, grimacing through the—admittedly—thick stack papers. She swung the rest of her pile to her neighbor.

James Rhodes hesitantly took it from her like he was disarming a bomb in the middle of an active warzone. “…Haven’t I seen you on a wanted poster?”

“Me? What? No, _never_ ,” Domino said, lying through her teeth.

Wade barely registered this back and forth. He’d been expecting so much more. But no. He was standing there at this janky ass podium, open to any and all criticism, _and it wasn’t coming._ There was no hate or venom or ridicule, and suddenly Wade felt his self-esteem surge just a bit.

Don’t get him wrong—there was confidence and commitment behind his announcement. But there was still something invigorating when this dearly held desire, once bluntly aired to the public, barely caused a ripple in the assembled crowd. He had some of the most famous—and infamous—people in the world in front of him, and none of them thought it was weird that he wanted to marry his Spidey-Boo. No one was even suggesting that it would never happen or, worse, that Peter could do better.

Wade foolishly allowed himself a mental fist pump. Belief was the first step of any successful enterprise, after all.

But, like a thinly veiled foreshadowing plot device, a dark husky voice rose from the attached chapel.

“Marriage,” Nathan Summers rasped disbelievingly. The grizzled time traveler known as Cable was leaning against the doorway, thumbs tucked in his belt. He stared off into the distance, face lit up by the last rays of a dying sun through stained-glass windows. “An empty institution. A gross display of capitalism and status signaling…and for what? Possession? Years of spousal neglect? Resentful, entitled children?” Cable sneered, directing his glower to the crowd. “Your generation took a shameful practice and turned it into horse shit. And then you-”

Wade closed the door in his face, cutting him off. He caught and held the door handle when it turned. “Nope!” It jiggled twice under his grip.

“Aw,” Hope said with a smirk. “He seemed nice.”

“Wasn’t he married?” Russell recalled awkwardly, confused. He was hanging off the back of the pew in front of him.

Before Wade could answer, there was a knock on the door. “Yes?” Wade chirped welcomingly, kicking one heel up.

“I want to come in,” Cable grumbled, voice muffled on the other side of the door.

“Why?” 

There was a long pause. “…I’m bored.”

Wade shrugged, opening up the door away. He made a sweeping motion towards the pews. “Fair enough. Join the crowd. Take a seat!”

Scowling, Cable grumbled some and walked over the first spot open in the front row. After a beat, he turned his bulldog, droopy expression down the pew, and people hastened to make it very clear that they were _Not Looking_ in his direction.

Wade took up his position behind the podium again. “Now. Where was I…”

In the back of the church, Tony interrupted him, standing. “Yeah, hi. Bored now. I have a question.”

“Jesus Christ, you guys don’t take direction well, do you?”

Tony ignored him. “What’s this about you sending Ellie and Yukio to scout out a _wedding_ venue?” He tapped his phone against his bottom lip twice before pointing it like a gun at Wade. “You made me assemble a dossier on every bad guy with a vendetta against Spider-Man. Is that not the more important thing?”

“Oh. He gave me that too,” Jessica said, turning around in the fourth row.

“And me,” Susan said. She gestured at the two of them. “Compare notes?”

Derailed, Tony looked away from Wade to the women. Then he looked at Wade. Then he looked back at them. “It’s… proprietary information. Obviously.” Then he leaned forward, smirking faintly. “But, ladies, I’m sure we can make a deal-”

“Backup. _Venues_?” Steve interrupted. Tony pouted at the back of his head. Not that Steve noticed—100% of his star-spangled, rocket’s red glare attention was on Wade himself. “See, I thought you were still on the ask phase.”

“Oh, I am,” Wade assured him.

But Steve’s gaze was direct enough to make him sweat. “And yet you’re already planning the wedding.” It wasn’t a question. Rather, it was a judgement.

Wade struggled to explain himself. “I- come on, Steve. The planning doesn’t matter-” This, obviously, caused a bit of outrage from all the people he’d convinced to do wedding planning stuff for him. “I mean, it does! It does, calm down.” Wade shrugged. “If Spidey says yes, then cool, open bar for everyone. If he says no, fine, whatever.” He gestured towards the middle of the church. “If that’s the case, then we just got a _huge_ head start on Ellie and Yukio’s wedding.”

Unexpectedly thrown in the ring, Ellie Phimister and her darling cupcake of a girlfriend Yukio looked like a pair of deer in headlights in the fourth row.

Then Yukio clapped her hands together, lighting up. “Yay!” She instantly wrapped her arms around Ellie. Ellie herself was still struggling to compute. For someone with a name like Negasonic Teenage Warhead, Ellie was easily stunned.

Colossus slapped his legs demandingly, standing up. “ _Nyet,_ ” he said harshly. Yukio stared up at him in betrayal. Colossus made a grasping motion, trying to find words. “It is, how you say, _not good fit_.”

“That’s kind of harsh,” Sam said carefully, frowning. “They seem cute together.”

Colossus looked confused, then pained at the misunderstanding. He started flapping his hands. “No. Not the girls. _The flowers_.” Frustrated, Colossus muttered in his mother tongue. Then he tried again, in English. “Wedding flowers, very complication. Particular to season and the couple.” He gestured at Wade. “For example, white tiger lilies and lilac peonies would be lovely at Spider-Man and Deadpool’s summer wedding.”

Wade gasped silently. Symbols of friendship and lilac, aka purple, aka the mix of red and blue of their respective super suits? Colossus was a genius! Heart eyes, motherfucker.

“…I do like roses better,” Ellie muttered, finally seeming to dethaw. Yukio grinned, hugging her all over again.

“Wait, wait,” Scott Lang said, incredulous. He stood too. He paused, looking at the girls. “Congratulations, but…” He swung his gaze back to Wade. “You sent the big guy on _flower_ detail?”

Colossus looked down his nose at Scott. They were two rows away from each other, but that didn’t matter with a guy Colossus’ size. A mistimed sneeze could see Scott launched through one of the dimming stained glass windows. “Small man doubts my opinion on decoration of my close friend’s nuptials?” he asked threateningly.

Scott backpedaled, paling. “I just- no. Never. I just-” He came clean. “Look, man, he had me researching _port-a-potties_ -”

Hope barked out a laugh. She wasn’t the only Avenger snickering at Scott’s assignment. Sam covered his face and Clint was straight up giggling. Even Bruce Banner, who perpetually looked lost, had an unsure half-smile on his face, like he wasn’t positive he was allowed to enjoy this.

“Wait, this is why you would not talk to me about your project?” Wanda asked, turning to Scott. She was poorly hiding her mirth. “I would not have made fun of you. _Probably_.”

Scott was exasperated. “How am I supposed to have a serious conversation with any of you—let alone you specifically?“ He put his hands on his hips and mimicked Wanda’s accent. “ _Oh, Wade wants me to find the best DJ. Money isn’t an option. I’m going to Europe for a three-month trip to all the best concerts in the whole frigging world-”_

“…I do not sound like that,” Wanda said slowly, her accent thickening.

“Actually, it is a decent impression,” Vision said innocently on her other side.

Wanda turned her head to her boyfriend. She patted his knee. “Thin ice, my love.”

Vision promptly picked up her hand, grazing her knuckles with a kiss. “Then on it, we shall skate. Together.” 

Wanda looked reluctantly charmed by this willful misunderstanding of idioms, and Scott and Colossus slowly sat, satisfied (or cowed) by the resolution of their various complaints. This seemed to open the door for other demands for information, and a whole bunch of people started talking at once—to each other, to Wade, and to group in general.

Wade had to pound the podium several times to be heard. “All of that aside!” he shouted. The noise started to die down. “All of that aside. There is one task you all share. _Make New York City a safer place._ ” In the back, Tony nodded once, grimly satisfied. “And I know… re-proposing can be, in some circumstances, a dick move, but I’m going to do it anyway. And I’ll tell you why.” Wade paused, gripping the edges of the podium. “I didn’t plan the first time, I just- My cup fucking runneth over. He was just so amazing and great and- yes, he turned me down. Because! Because… I proposed for _me_. I didn’t propose for _him_. I didn’t consider his feelings. His cup. His thoughts. His fears. His worries. His nightmares. I just-”

Wade closed his eyes. He shook his head once, then continued. “But all of this—port-a-potties and flowers aside—is me getting on his level, right? Showing him that I understand his concerns and worries, and, better yet, I know how to address them… It’s a win/win scenario, no matter what he decides. He’ll still have the benefit of a safer NYC. He’ll still know he doesn’t have the weight of six million people on his shoulders alone. And we all know what he’s like when he thinks he does.”

Wade opened his eyes in time to see pensive looks of guilt passing over most of the faces of New York’s finest superfreaks. Hindsight made the events of last year particularly clear for most of them. Whatever communication issues were happening at the time, Peter was too good of a man to have suffered the consequences that he suffered.

He didn’t deserve to be practically blacklisted by everyone in this church. He didn’t deserve being basically ignored by the X-Men. He didn’t deserve being batted around the city by his fellow superheroes. And he sure as hell didn’t deserve having to go toe-to-toe with the Green Goblin, alone and already bleeding.

That Wade had contributed to that himself was a frequent nightmare of his, and he knew he couldn’t be the only one who looked back on that day with such a profound regret.

“Well, on that depressing note…” Wade rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyone got anything else to say?”

Scott jumped up again. “Yes! So. Um. About the port-a-potties...”

“A bidet’s not fucking optional, Rudd!” Wade snapped.

And just like that, the first unified “New X-Force” meeting erupted into chaos.

…NXF? NeX-Force? Eh, he’ll workshop the name with them at the next meeting.

-

At the red flashing intersection, Yuri slid into a stop behind a slew of other cars. On the next seat, her phone rang. Sighing irritably, she turned it over, seeing that her boss was calling her. Again. She tapped her fingers on her steering wheel for a solid 20 seconds before deciding to bite the bullet and answer.

“Watanabe.”

“Good afternoon, Yuriko,” said Tom O’Leary pointedly, drawing out the greeting. In the background, she could hear the soft refrains of classical music. “Long time no talk. I haven’t seen you in a while. Thought maybe I missed your two weeks’ notice on my desk.”

Yuri’s lips pulled back away from her teeth. But when she answered, her tone was neutral. “I’m following up on a lead. I sent you an update yesterday.”

“You know I don’t appreciate updates via email, Yuriko. It’s very rude.”

Yuri fought to keep her muted scoff actually muted. Her preference for short, to the point communications was hardly impolite. O’Leary just liked to control his minions through pointless two hour meetings and lengthy reporting processes. Even if it was rude, no amount of browbeating from this blond haired, watery eyed white guy was going to do what six years in the military couldn’t.

So she ignored the comment. “Either way, I have a meeting with a contact. Can this wait?”

“Not if your meeting has anything to do with Richard Delgado’s alleged prison break,” O’Leary said disapprovingly.

Alleged was thrown around a lot in her industry. _Alleged_ murderers, _alleged_ crimes, _alleged_ criminals. All alleged meant was that it hadn’t been proven. It was hardly a values statement or a reflection of doubt in a cop’s work. But in O’Leary’s mouth, it sounded like more than that. It sounded like doubt. It sounded like distrust. It sounded like second guessing.

And it sounded like O’Leary was questioning her ability to do her damn job. It grated.

“I know what I saw, sir,” Yuri said tightly. But she had more evidence than her eyeballs now. The hospital was still giving her attitude, and Ryker’s was playing the innocent, pointing at paper trails that backed up their stance. A warrant would take time—but she didn’t need one.

Ricky Delgado had been sighted all over the place in his old stomping grounds, walking tall and throwing money around without a care. Even if she never got her warrant, it was only a matter of time before she caught her man in the act. In fact, she was on her way to question one of the man’s former associates. Most of them had washed their hands clean of Ricky when the full extent of his crimes was made public. No one was happy to see him out of jail all of a sudden. People were going to talk.

“I don’t care about some man you _thought_ you saw at two in the morning, after a ten-hour shift. You know what this department feels about hunches, Yuriko. There are more important things to worry about in New York right now than a ghost,” O’Leary said. “Someone tried to steal an art piece from a museum with _rocket boots_. I want your nose to the grindstone figuring out what happened-”

“Sir, that is not a good use of my time.” What was there to figure out? The whole heist team was in jail, cooling their heels—and at least one of them was singing like a canary after a run-in with the Winter Soldier.

“You have your orders. O’Leary out.”

The call ended. Yuri stared at her phone, pissed. “Now, who’s being rude?” Swearing under her breath, she dropped the phone back into her passenger seat, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. In front of her, the intersection finally turned green. She leaned on the gas pedal as hard as she dared, briefly rubbing her forehead. She felt a migraine coming on.

Damn him. She’d always hated being micromanaged, but she’d enjoyed a degree of autonomy up until now. All of that went away with the new hire, her new boss.

Tom O’Leary. On paper, the guy looked alright—several high-profile arrests, good PR pieces, and three decades of experience as a cop in New Jersey. He came with solid recommendations, and the Chief of Police, George Stacy, liked the hell out of him. He had a wife and two kids, and he was born in Queens. He gelled well with the public.

And he absolutely hated Spider-Man.

Timing was not on O’Leary’s side. If he had come in just five years earlier, his feelings about vigilantes would have been met with more sympathy. But the world of policing—especially in New York City—was constantly evolving, and a police officer these days was expected to expend more effort and time in establishing mutually beneficial partnerships with the community.

Superheroes included. In fact, due to the prolific extraordinary events that regularly hit New York, the state had passed several laws in the last few years that allowed people like Spider-Man and the Avengers a lot more latitude—and freedom—to act. The only major requirement on their end to maintain legitimacy was for that superhero or vigilante to partner up with some kind of law-enforcement or government agency.

The Avengers were adopted by SHIELD. The Defenders eventually cashed in on a joint sponsorship between the NYPD Organized Crime Unit and the FBI. The Fantastic Four linked up with Homeworld Security, and NYC’s most notorious solo act partnered with… Yuri. Or the NYPD, to be more precise.

Finding out that everyone’s favorite webhead was essentially a consultant of the NYPD was the first crack in Yuri’s impression of O’Leary. O’Leary went _ballistic_. He tried enforcing all sorts of rules on Spider-Man, blatantly trying to push him out.

But Spidey good-naturedly took it. He wore a body cam and sat in on debriefs, crouched on the wall like the giant goober he was. He cheerfully offered to wear a uniform (over his suit, of course) and went through all the department’s mandated training. He shadowed a couple of veteran cops to get a better sense of police procedure, including a three week stint with a traffic cop. And everything, of course, had to be documented. Spider-Man’s handwriting was atrocious, but his reports were thorough and fact-based, just technical enough to make Yuri suspicious about what his job was when he wasn’t donning a mask.

In short, it was bullshit, but Spider-Man compiled every step of the way with everything O’Leary could think to throw at him. When these extra responsibilities didn’t scare him off, O’Leary tried to make it department policy that no civilian contractor would be allowed to work with them unless their identity was public record.

And that, out of all the insults O’Leary had hurled at him, was the one thing that gave Spider-Man the greatest pause. Even if the rest of the super society was leaning towards open identities, Spider-Man himself definitely was not. Spider-Man didn’t want to talk about it, either.

Before Spider-Man had to make a call, this disastrous policy was fortunately shot down by the Chief himself. George Stacy regularly contracted out work to the X-Men for kidnappings and search and rescue missions, and not all of those mutants were ready to go public. Stacy wouldn’t jeopardize his new relationship with Charles Xavier for all the de-masked vigilantes in the world.

To his credit, Stacy nixed all of the other rules too once he learned about them. He leaned hard on O’Leary. Stacy’s stance was that if a civilian was going to be held to the same standards and regulations as a cop, that civilian should be a cop—with all of the benefits, backpay, and overtime that implied.

Under this pressure, O’Leary had wisely backed off. But he never quite forgave Yuri for her role in all of this, which was unfair. She hadn’t done anything but spectate. She hadn’t worried. Worst case scenario, she’d figured, was that she’d have to deal with SHIELD every time she and Spidey crossed paths. SHIELD would pick Spider-Man up in an instant, and it wasn’t like Spider-Man would just quit foiling robbers and shutting down assaults wherever he saw them.

And Spider-Man took the “friendly” part of his name seriously. Even with different agency backing, he’d probably still trot up to her like they were pals and freely share information. He wasn’t the type to posture, and there wasn’t a mean bone in that guy’s body.

She’d prefer not to have to deal with government agents, though. The longer Spider-Man stayed with the NYPD, the better. 

Yuri’s phone rang again. Still not pleased about that last phone call, Yuri growled. Then she shot her hand out, answering it.

“What?” she barked.

But it wasn’t O’Leary. It was one of her detectives. “Hey, sunshine. Found you some evidence that Ricky Delgado is out of prison,” said Henderson, not offended. Then he paused. “You’ll… want to see this, boss.” He followed up with a street address, and she immediately made a U-turn.

It was good that she did. Although the place was close, the streets were packed and several lanes were closed. It took her fifteen minutes to get there. She would have been better off walking. When she got close, she saw that Henderson himself was standing under a deli overhang, eating a massive pickle. Cops were busy throwing up caution tape over the alley, directing pedestrians to go elsewhere.

Frowning, Yuri parked and made her way over. Henderson, seeing her, quickly ate the rest of his pickle, rubbing his fingers over his coat.

“Ricky likes this deli,” Yuri recalled, sticking her hands in her pockets. It was cold. “He in there?”

The deli looked empty. Few of the lights were on and there were no customers. In the back, the owner was hovering in the kitchen, arms tucked under his elbows. He was talking to a much shorter police officer, looking unhappy about the entire experience.

Henderson ran a hand through his dark hair, blue eyes squinting in the daylight. “You’re, uh. You’re not going to like this.”

“What?” Yuri asked. She liked Henderson, but he was a notorious waffler. She tried to read him, but his eyes kept sliding away from hers. “I know him. He wouldn’t have risked the deli by doing something to someone around here.”

“It’s not so much what he did, but rather what someone did to him,” Henderson said. He paused, then started walking. “Just… come on.”

They didn’t go into the deli. Instead, they walked over to the alley. Henderson lifted the caution tape for her, telling her to mind her step. The area smelled like old food, vermin, and mold—probably because of the small army of trash cans that nearly blocked the entire alleyway. Something foul oozed its way out from under the cans. How this wasn’t a health code violation was beyond Yuri.

But it was what was behind the trash cans that made her pause. Seated like he was taking a nap was Richard “Ricky” Delgado, her missing man.

He had his wallet in his hands, untouched, and his head was bowed. He was wearing new, crisp clothing, his slacks still holding a sharp pleat. His hat was at an angle, and a cloud of red had bled through his shirt pocket. He’d been shot in the heart at close range.

Yuri stared down at him for a long moment before crouching at his feet. She rubbed her sore knee and struggled with mixed feelings. On one hand, here he was—irrefutable proof of a jailbreak. It was vindicating. Her battle from here on out wasn’t going to be proving it happened, but rather how far it extended, and she’d bet her next paycheck that both Ryker’s and the hospital would swear up and down that that he was the only one.

On the other hand, Ricky was dead. Someone she knew and pursued and verbally dueled with was now dead as a doorknob with no way of coming back, and that… sucked. And in ways that surprised even Yuri. She never felt guilt over bad things happening to bad people. And Ricky was a son of bitch who would sell out his own mother for a profit… but he’d had a handful of morals towards the end. No kids. No drugs. A beating or two was fine, but straight up murder? That was too far for Ricky.

And here he was, left for dead outside his favorite deli. He saw his killer pull the trigger, and probably even tried to bribe him or her not to do it, judging by the wallet.

No one, not even Ricky Delgado, deserved to be gunned down in an alley and left there like yesterday’s trash.

“I’m sorry, boss,” Henderson said, watching her. Shaken from her thoughts, Yuri stood. “I know he was your only lead. And I know this leaves… a lot unanswered.”

Yuri looked back down at Ricky. “Does it, though?” she asked. Henderson immediately cocked his head. “Ricky did alright when he was running schemes by himself. But a guy doesn’t get out of prison on his own, especially not one like Ryker’s.”

“So you’ve said,” Henderson said carefully, frowning. He hadn’t liked the fact that Yuri was suspicious of the prison and the hospital, she remembered.

Yuri lifted her hands in defense. “Okay, look at it this way. You’re running an operation, and you’ve just figured out a way to smuggle a guy out of an island prison like Ryker’s. But the guy you sprang from prison repays you by running away from cops, transporting explosives and abandoning them, and getting seen in his old stomping grounds. What would you do?”

Henderson shuffled slightly, eyes on the tips of his shoes. Then he looked up at Yuri. “That guy would be a huge threat to my operations,” he said flatly.

“Exactly,” she said, pleased he was following her.

“But see it from my shoes, Yuri,” Henderson said, a pleading note entering his tone. “Are you really saying the hospital sent an assassin after the guy to cover up their mistake? Or even Ryker’s?”

“Actually, I don’t think that at all,” Yuri said slowly, staring to piece together an idea. “Neither Ryker’s nor the hospital benefits from letting a felon go free. No, I think the misinformation from the hospital and the prison are the symptoms of a problem, not the cause of it.” Yuri started pacing, eyes on Ricky’s body. She started nodding to herself. “If not Ryker’s and not the hospital, who else is making ripples in the underground for moving supplies and buying people?”

Henderson stiffened at the mention of his case. He closed the distance between the two of them, talking quietly and quickly. “For the last three months, the Benefactor’s MO has been vague but consistent. Buying up things, sure. Recruiting people, yes. But no overt criminal activities.”

None that they could pin to him, anyway. “Okay?”

Henderson shook his head. “What makes you think he’s graduated to springing people from prison?” His gaze was intense.

Yuri paused. Then she smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. “Call it a hunch.”

The Benefactor broke into the scene a few months back with barely a splash. At the time, no one noticed this enigmatic figure as the public was still reeling over the sudden and public assassination of a district attorney. As it was, the Benefactor slipped almost entirely under the radar, buying up properties and recruiting personnel for a yet-to-be-defined business venture.

The Benefactor could have almost passed for an anonymous businessperson merely lining up his or her investments, if not for the fact that anyone who was willing to talk about the Benefactor disappeared or died under mysterious circumstances. There was also the suspicious fact that Yuri hadn’t named the investor herself—the gangs on the ground did. And as far as she knew, very few innocent investors got their names in the mouths of career criminals unless they themselves were dipping their toes into a life of crime—and the Benefactor did heavy recruitment amongst New York City’s less than savory citizens.

It was a long shot. The most they had on him was probably the illegal street fights he was allegedly connected to. While against the law, it wasn’t compelling enough to pursue just yet—after all, who with money didn’t do a little gambling on the side, right? But she knew all the players in town, and the only criminals with the level of sophistication necessary to pull off a well-hidden prison break were in prison themselves, cut off from their resources and networks. No, there was no one else local who could pull this off. Everyone else was either a lone wolf or part of a gang, squabbling over petty territory. If the Benefactor wasn’t the one behind the prison break, there was a decent chance he or she knew more about it than Yuri did.

Henderson’s shoulders slumped. “I hate your gut.” He turned away from her, sighing.

“Hasn’t steered me wrong yet,” she said with some cheer. “We’ve found no solid evidence tying the Benefactor to anything criminal, but if the rumors are true, it’s only a matter of time. We need to get ahead of the game, Henderson.”

“The Benefactor’s operations are sealed tight. No one even knows who he is—no one I know, anyway. The only entry point I see are the fights.” Henderson turned to face her, expression pinched. “And if we did go ahead with the undercover assignment, it’s a long shot. And like I told you last month, there’s only rumors and hearsay.”

Henderson was stalling. She’d get on Henderson’s ass as much as he needed, because there was no one better than one of her golden boys to crack this case wide open. But she didn’t understand his discomfort with this case. Normally, she had to yank back on the reigns, to keep Henderson from throwing his all into a lead. But with this case, he was unusually hesitant, like cat who wouldn’t step fully outside out of fear of getting her paws wet.

“But the fights are the best in we’ve got, especially if a lot of people still think that the Benefactor is bankrolling them.” With a hefty cut of all bets, of course.

“Yes,” Henderson said reluctantly. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “If I go undercover now, I might be able to find a way in by January-”

“I’m sorry, but that’s not acceptable. I need you to do better than that.” Frustrated, Yuri gestured at Ricky. “I know you’re cautious, Henderson, and I know you keep a cool head undercover. But if the Benefactor is already killing people, we need to move faster than that.” A lot faster.

Henderson looked down at Ricky for a long moment, expression pensive. Then he slowly nodded, as if making up his mind. “Montana and Bloch are difficult to approach. But there’s a new recruiter for the fights. Daniel Brito. Got busted quite a few years ago himself for running a similar operation. Through him, I may be able to finesse a way in quicker.” He looked up at her again, expression resigned. “Three weeks, tops, but I need to start immediately. You’ll sign off on it?”

Yuri paused. Something tight and angry had twisted in her chest the second she saw Ricky. That same knot loosened suddenly at the hope of a way forward. “I’ll have to run it by O’Leary. But yes. I’ll give you everything you need.” Henderson continued to look grim. “And hey, chin up, big guy. I can’t think of a better man than you to rattle the Benefactor’s cages.”

“Yippee,” Henderson said dully, massaging the bridge of his nose.

Ricky might have been a massive shithead, but there would be justice for him. Some day.

-

Patrolling New York City was an isolating exercise. Rather, it had been. Peter wasn’t the only vigilante or superhero in the city that figured out roaming with intent was a good way to keep a finger on the pulse of the city. Hell, even cops had beats. But Peter’s powers meant he didn’t generally run into other people doing patrols just like him. Not unless he made special efforts to include them. Or they flew. Or they were exceptionally stubborn ( _Wade_ ).

So it didn’t quite make sense that Peter was running into other supers as much as he was nowadays. Peter could have sworn there was a patrol schedule around somewhere. They always acted surprised too, announcing that they were patrolling in such and such area between such and such time—oh? Was that Peter’s normal route? Then why didn’t he take the night off?

And sometimes, Peter did. With equal parts relief and guilt. Suspicion too. But whatever they were trying to do, he couldn’t hate it. It was the principle of his Spidey Clone Army, writ large.

What person in their right mind would commit a crime while a well-known superhero or vigilante was visibly out and about? Drug dealers shied away if they saw Captain America walking down the street—in uniform or out of it. Kidnappers and extortionists sweated bullets when Jessica lifted her camera. Would-be robbers shied away from the cash register when Reed stretched between to purchase more baby formula.

It was everything he fought for with the Spidey Clone Army, but better because he wasn’t in charge of it.

In fact, the only thing Peter hated about it was the fact that he rarely went patrolling with Wade anymore.

Wade had fully earned his Avengers status. Peter wouldn’t begrudge him that, nor did he resent the missions and assignments that occupied Wade’s time. He didn’t even resent the newly reformed X-Force. At the end of the day, Wade was happy and energetic and respected in ways that Wade himself still marveled at occasionally.

But Peter still missed those days where it seemed like it was just Wade and Peter against the world. That period of time after the Vitanova incident had left Peter feeling raw and overexposed. He’d even dropped the mask at one point, not knowing if he could take being Spider-Man anymore. When he picked it back up and re-entered the scene, Wade was right there—at a distance, at first. Tentatively, trying to give Peter his space. But Wade’d had Peter’s back the whole time, and he’d wasted no time reminding Peter why Spider-Man existed in the first place.

And the city quickly learned that where there was Spider-Man, there was also Deadpool.

But those days were done. How could they not be after that botched marriage proposal? Wade mostly was alright when Peter’s mask was off. But when Peter’s mask was on, Wade was nowhere to be found. Peter couldn’t blame him. The suit probably reminded Wade of that night in ways that just his face did not. 

But it was upsetting all the same. So Peter did what Peter did best—he tried not to think about it too much. He found other things to focus on, the other people he had around him to patrol with.

Like Matt. Of all of his allies, Peter probably had the most affinity with his fellow vigilante in red. Matt preyed on the fears of crooked men. He inspired that fear on purpose, but life was as important to him as it was to Peter. Peter could patrol in peace with Matt, knowing that Matt wouldn’t make a quick judgement call and eliminate a threat.

Tony too was a favored patrol partner—and not just because Tony let Peter swing from him as he was flying through the city. If Matt appealed to Peter’s sense of responsibility, then Tony definitely appealed to Peter’s sense of curiosity. Partnering with Tony tended to devolve in them talking smack and brainstorming about new inventions.

The third person he tended to be partnered nowadays with was Johnny, and, well-

Johnny had a habit of ditching him. Which was why Peter was currently facing off against a trio of robbers, alone, on a Tuesday night.

They’d broken into a closed corner store and had just emptied out what little was in the cash drawer when Peter rolled in. One of them, a lanky blond man in desperate need of a couple of meals, saw Peter immediately. He bolted to the door and got webbed to a light post for his troubles.

The second robber was a tiny red-haired boy whose freckles stood out on his pale, pale face. Swearing up a storm, he shoved a shelf over on Peter— _rude_. Peter flipped out of the way, then ducked under a swing from a heavy bag of the robbers’ loot. He sank an elbow into the kid’s gut, sending him, winded, into a wall of potato chips.

The third robber just watched, idly dragging in smoke from a bent cigarette. Salt and pepper hair bled into a shaggy beard of the same color and texture. Peter prided himself on knowing the local players, but even he was surprised how quickly recognized this one.

“Those things will kill you, Karl,” Peter told him cheerfully.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Karl with a sign, putting out the smoke. His faded gray eyes moved away from Peter, seemingly seeking something from the ground. “Do me a favor and let me sit down this time? Last time you webbed me to something, I had to stand for 20 minutes. Not easy at my age, you understand?”

“My bad,” Peter said genuinely. He didn’t often stick around to watch the NYPD process the scene. There was always something else to do. “You’re looking pretty good.”

That caught Karl by surprise. The old man started wheezing. “If one foot in the grave is attractive to you, then, sure, I’m looking pretty damn swell.”

Peter hovered a bit as Karl slowly lowered himself to the ground. He was ready to offer an arm, but only if Karl absolutely needed it. Karl was prideful, after all. Still, Peter crouched, getting on the man’s level. “Hey, I thought you got out for good behavior? What happened, man? Why are you rushing back to prison so quickly?”

Peter was disappointed. Sure, Karl was a grown man (twice Peter’s age and then some) and a career criminal, but he was a pretty alright guy. Smart too, and friendly when he wanted to be. Peter was sure, this time, Karl was going to turn his life around.

But Karl scoffed. “Winter happened, Spidey. You know of any other place offering four walls and regular meals to old timers like me?”

Peter’s mouth flattened into a thin line. This was why guys like Karl always stuck with him. He’d had his own brushes with poverty and homelessness before he got his job with Oscorp, and most of them were due to poor decision making. And yet he knew a lot of people who were struggling did so out of no choice or fault of their own.

While they were never rich and merely only ever comfortable, cancer and the care and upkeep of an unexpected orphan put Ben and May Parker in danger of losing their housing on an almost monthly basis.

And for guys like Karl, who had rap sheets instead of resumes, it must seem like there was no way to make ends meet. Except for the criminal activity that got them in trouble in the first place, that is. Who was going to hire a guy like Karl? Who was going to house him? Who was going to make sure he didn’t die of exposure in the cold?

Peter rubbed his face, tired. “What about FEAST?”

Karl tucked his hands under his folded arms. “Not my crowd.”

“And what is your crowd?” Peter asked dubiously.

Karl bared his teeth at Peter. “Me, myself, and I. Helps me stay outta trouble.”

“Clearly,” Peter said ironically, thinking of his less than competent crew. He stood as Karl huffed out a hoarse laugh.

Then Peter tipped his head at a noise. His hand shot behind him before he’d fully turned, and before he knew it, he had a 5 foot 5 robber standing on his tiptoes. Absently, Peter patted his side with his free hand, feeling skin where there shouldn’t have been skin.

He’d seen Karl and dropped his guard, and he almost got stabbed for it.

“The hell are you doing, boy?” Karl snapped. But he wasn’t looking at Peter.

The kid was seething, clawing and ripping at Peter’s hand to try and free himself. The redhead had picked up an empty bottle, it seemed. The noise had been glass shattering against a corner of a freezer, and the kid still had the broken bottle in his hand.

“Let go,” Peter said after a beat, sounding more normal than he felt. His mind was blank in a way it rarely was in situations like this. Then again, Peter was rarely at risk of getting stabbed these days.

“You let go,” the kid snapped. His face was blood red and his eyes screamed murder. It wasn’t right to see such a young face filled with so much hate.

Feeling nauseated, Peter tried to channel his inner Captain America. “Either you let go of the bottle or I turn your wrist into a twisty-tie. Your call.”

“Let go, Jeremy!” Karl barked from the ground. The kid, Jeremy, hesitated, then looked down at him. Karl was furious. “You attack someone like that again, and you’ll end up going away for a lot more than B&E. You do that to a cop, and you’re dead in the ground. You do that to a super, and you may wake up from a coma.” When Jeremy did nothing but continue to tear at Peter’s hand, Karl slammed his fist into the closest wall. “You hear me? You’re a fucking lucky punk that the man in front of you is Spider-Man instead of someone else!”

Karl’s words were penetrating past Jeremy’s anger. He met Peter’s eyes. “You attacked us first,” he hissed hatefully. Behind him, the wall started pulsating with red and blue lights. The cops were here.

“Did I, though?” Peter asked. “I just webbed your friend as he was fleeing. You brought a shelf down on me, then tried to inflict some traumatic brain injury. Buddy, your friend is right. You’re lucky I’m me.”

The cops filed in, shouting for the weapon to be put down. Defeated, Jeremy finally dropped the glass, head bowed and eyes full of frustrated tears. Peter felt a weird mix of anger and pity. As soon as one of the cops was close, Peter released him into the man’s custody.

Things happened quickly after that. Peter hung around a little longer than usual, watching as the runner was released from the light pole with the enzyme all cops had on them nowadays. Jeremy was marched off to a patrol car first, swearing up a storm, and Karl himself was handcuffed to the counter as the cops processed the scene and took Peter’s statement. Peter deflected every attempt of theirs to ask about the attempted stabbing, much to their annoyance.

It took another ten minutes for the cops to have a cruiser ready to transport Karl.

This time, Peter offered an arm, and Karl took it, stiffly, groaning as he got to his feet. Standing for twenty minutes hadn’t been pleasant for him, but it was clear that sitting on the cold ground for just as long didn’t do him any favors either. They shuffled together to the car. 

As they walked, Karl knocked into him lightly, stumbling. “Speaking of the wrong crowds, Spidey,” Karl said under his breath. “Ever heard of some fool called the Benefactor?”

“Um. I’ll have to check my little black book, but right now, I can’t say I have.”

In front of them, an NYPD officer opened up the back of her cruiser. “Well, if I were you, I’d get to putting my ear to the ground. Because even though you haven’t heard of him, he’s sure as hell heard of you.” With her help, Karl eased into the seat, cuffs jingling quietly.

“A lot of people have heard of me. Comes with the territory,” Peter said. He pointed at himself. “You know… bright red and blue costume? Swinging around the city all the time? Talking incessantly?”

The NYPD officer was trying very, very hard not to smile. In contrast, Karl’s expression was grimly serious. “…I’ve said what I’m gonna say. And, remember, I didn’t have to say anything at all.”

“Got it.” Peter waved awkwardly. “Thanks, Karl.”

In the other cruiser, Jeremy was heatedly snapping at the other robber, who seemed cowed by the younger man’s vitriolic speech. If Peter strained his hearing, he bet he could overhear them. What did criminals say when they were alone after they were first arrested? Death threats and insults, probably. Jeremy definitely seemed like the kind of kid who leaned on insults.

But Peter didn’t listen after all, because just then, Johnny touched down next to him, flame dissipating as soon as his heels touched the ground. Peter would have welcomed the ambient heat that even a charged down Human Torch offered, if he hadn’t already been ticked off.

“…Where have you been?”

“Grabbing the closest cop. Duh.” Johnny put his hands on his hips. He didn’t make eye contact. His body language was dismissive, half turned away from Peter. “Or do you think a cop just magically appears at your side whenever you need them?”

Under different circumstances, Johnny’s words could be interrupted as just their usual banter. But this time, it hit a little too hard. Maybe because it was the way Karl had given up freedom without a fight. Maybe it was because Jeremy reminded Peter a little too much of himself when he was an angry teenager. Or maybe it was because Johnny had his full back to Peter already, idly texting someone on his phone.

It was times like this that Peter really felt like there had to be a schedule somewhere. A Spider-Man schedule, specifically. Johnny sure as hell didn’t want to patrol with him. But like clockwork, he showed up every Tuesday, following Peter around like a passive aggressive lost dog.

“Could have used you at my back,” Peter said heatedly. “I almost got shanked by that kid.”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Johnny said, turning back to Peter. He tucked his heat proof phone back in his suit, but now that Peter had Johnny’s full attention, he didn’t want it.

Because all that was in Johnny’s eyes was contempt.

“You’re the Spider-Man,” Johnny continued. “If you can’t handle one idiot with a broken bottle, you should quit.”

Peter swallowed harshly. It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to some ribbing from Johnny. They were too close in age for Johnny to take him seriously… probably. But Johnny wasn’t so overtly hostile. But now it was occurring to him that Johnny had been like this—more biting than joking, more mean than playful—for quite some time.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, averting his gaze. “…Is this about the name thing?” he asked quietly.

The last 12 months had seen Peter slowly outing himself to his fellow super heros. Some only knew his name. Others knew his name and his face. Still others knew his name, his face, his home address, and where his aunt and uncle lived, and the reality of that was jarring as all hell. But somewhere down the line, Peter had neglected to bring Johnny into the loop. It quickly turned into a joke amongst their peers, though Johnny was quick to say he didn’t want Peter’s name anyway. Peter could see how that might build some resentment.

But Johnny just scoffed. “Hey, ever consider the possibility that not everything is about you?”

“I don’t know,” Peter said tersely. The back of his head started to buzz. “This all is starting to feel very personal.”

Johnny laughed without humor. “Fine. Fine. You want to know what’s really going on? Meet me on the roof.” He lit up in a column of heat, shooting up into the air and away from prying eyes.

Making some quick good-byes, Peter followed the hothead across the skyline of New York City. Instead of stopping on the closest roof, Johnny burned a path halfway across Manhattan. He came to a rolling stop in the middle of Central Park, his suit steaming, and, by the time Peter swung over to him, most of Johnny’s anger seemed to have fizzled out.

“The Four is about to break up,” he said out of nowhere, back to Peter.

Of all the things Peter expected to hear, this was far down the list. “What? Why?”

“Why not?” Johnny raised his hands vaguely, sardonically towards the sky. “In this city, where you can throw a penny and hit a superhero? At least we have the good sense to know when we’re not needed.”

Peter closed the distance between them, setting a gentle hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Johnny, there’s no way that’s true-”

“Don’t come at me like that,” Johnny snapped, shaking Peter’s hand off. “You’re just as redundant as we are, and you’re too stupid to see it.” Frustrated, Johnny turned away from him, one hand gripping his hair. “At least before, we were convinced everyone else had the wrong priorities. That we were the only ones who could make a difference-”

“You mean back when you guys never worked with anyone?” Peter retorted angrily, hopping around Johnny so he couldn’t keep ignoring him. “When you were more likely to get in a fight with the Avengers or the X-Men? When you were more likely to fail because your pride kept you from making friends?” Peter froze, suddenly understanding everything. “You’re mad at me because all of the groups are cooperating with each other now?”

Johnny’s eyes were wide. Guilty even. “Yes. No. Yes! I-” Johnny’s expression crunched up, and Peter’s spidey sense told him to leap back.

So he did.

“Flame on!”

A tower of fire scorched the grass, and Johnny took off into the night, a too bright star too close to the ground. Fuming, Peter watched him go. He was tempted to swing after the hot head and launch Johnny face first into a tree. For science. Peter hadn’t gotten the chance to test how fireproof his new boots were.

But the anger only held up for so long before it was strangled and weakened by a growing, twisting guilt.

Peter covered his face. “Goddamn it.”

Johnny and Peter had never been close buddies, but they’d had a good enough relationship that Peter hadn’t thought twice about looping Johnny into the Spidey Clone Army. And Johnny gave him no reason to regret that choice. No, Johnny had been super gleeful about it, incandescent, even.

But he’d withdrawn from Peter as quickly as everyone else. Even Sue had given him the courtesy of updating him on what was going on. Johnny just ghosted him, refusing to answer calls or texts, and somewhere in his heart of hearts, Peter hadn’t expected that. If anyone was going to go rogue with Peter, it would have been Johnny Storm. Or so he thought. In the end, Johnny obeyed the final decision of the Fantastic Four, loyal as ever to his family unit.

And that was probably what was eating up Johnny so badly now. He’d stuck by the Four through thick and thin, and now it must seem like the Four was abandoning him. This was so, so very not the case, but there was no way Peter could clue him into that, not without Johnny shutting him down immediately or flying off like a huffy teenager.

He could only hope the Four figured out how to move forward together, and that Johnny learned, like Peter had to, that true friendship and affection didn’t require secret identities.

Just trust.


	4. Chapter 4

“Buddy. Pal. _Friend_ ,” Peter said pleadingly.

“Associate,” said Miles Morales coldly, voice muffled slightly by his new black and red mask. His arms were crossed over his chest, and they only clenched harder the longer Peter kept his arm around the kid’s shoulders.

Across from him, Cindy Moon was covering her mouth with her hand, a redundant gesture as she was dressed in her own red, black, and white suit—half-mask included. Her hand also did little to hide the mirth in her ever-exposed eyes.

Peter had run into the two of them together towards the end of his patrol and after his disastrous conversation with Johnny Storm. He’d seen their colors out of the corner of his eye, a sight that was quickly backed up by the familiar, friendly buzz of being in proximity with another spider person. He’d backflipped, landing on a lower roof before hopping over a balcony, dropping the five remaining stories to where the two were sharing some hot chocolate.

Peter wouldn’t lie and say that the sight of them together wasn’t alarming. Because it was. Although Cindy and Miles knew of each other (though not by name), Peter had never introduced them. And here they were, chatting like old friends. Even worse, they had been talking about him.

“Speak of the devil,” Miles had said flatly, shoulders hunching. Next to him, Cindy had just waved three fingers.

What was with today and Peter pissing people off? Mentally shrugging, Peter had slung an arm around Miles and started his sincere efforts to shake the kid out of his bad mood. “Okay, buddy. What did I do now?”

Generally speaking, Peter tried not to treat Miles like the kid he was, knowing how much that had pissed Peter off while growing up. But he couldn’t help a certain amount of affection and protectiveness towards the younger superhero. Especially when he was like this—annoyed and trying very, very hard to hold on to it so he didn’t invalidate it.

Miles’ shoulders were up to his ears. “…Mad about last year,” he admitted in a sullen huff.

It made Peter want to squeeze him. So he did. Miles squawked.

“Come on,” Peter said breezily, releasing Miles when he thrashed. He backed up a step, hands up. “I thought you forgave me already. Let bygones be bygones…?”

“I did,” Miles said candidly, arms crossing back over his chest. “Then I met Silk today, we got to talking, and then I got re-mad. Okay?”

Cindy’s eyes crinkled in amusement when Peter looked at her. “Must you always be a thorn in my side?”

“Oh, I must,” Cindy purred, propping her chin up in her hands.

Cindy and Peter had gone to the same middle school growing up. They fell off each other’s radar when Peter’d started prioritizing money over school, friendships, and relationships. They’d ran into each other randomly when they were in their twenties, but they never found a solid footing with each other. This resulted in a hot and cold friendship and, outside of Wade, probably his longest successful romantic relationship. That is, if you could call a series of self-destructive booty calls a relationship. Peter sure didn’t.

Fate tangled some weird webs of its own, though. Apparently, the spiders that created the original Spider-Man were cryogenically frozen and kept in a lab for years. Several years ago, a rogue scientist stole some of them and managed to revive them just in time for the FBI to raid his lab in the subway system. At the time, Cindy had been unlucky enough to have to have been dating one of the cops who made the raid—and who didn’t see his eight-legged passenger on his jacket until it had already bit Cindy.

Cindy had assumed Spider-Man infected her, and she went after him with a single-minded fury. Startled at his friend/occasional love interest’s superhuman transformation, Peter’d barely managed to talk her down, promising her that he would figure out what happened.

She agreed to this, but only if he took her along with him.

In a lot of ways, Cindy was his very first partner, and Peter did not make a good first impression of what it was like to work with other superheroes. He’d struggled hard with the encroachment on his secret identity and tried to keep her at a distance, even to the point where he’d left her behind a lot. It was a mess, and Peter wasn’t proud of his own decision making at that moment. Because of this, it took the better part of three weeks to backtrack and figure out what happened.

It took another three weeks for her to accidentally catch Peter in the middle of suiting up, which is how he found out that his spidey sense didn’t work right around other spider people.

Peter might have freaked out. A bit.

But their friendship survived the revelation. It survived Peter’s ham-fisted attempts at keeping Cindy safe too, mostly because Cindy didn’t care to add vigilante to her resume. While she designed and kept her suit, she stayed way the hell away from other supers and the public eye. But she was always quick to back Peter up in a crisis. She also was the first one to tell him that the Spider Clone Army was going to blow up in his face. Not that that stopped her from throwing on a suit when Peter asked.

But fate was funny. A real stand-up comedian. Just as Cindy and Peter were wrapping up the case of how Cindy became a spider person, Miles Morales got bit while exploring an abandoned part of the subway. He’d been only 10 years old at the time.

Peter had no idea how he’d weathered the change so young. But he did, and he kept his head down and eyes off of him, so smarter than Peter in every imaginable way. Peter wouldn’t have even known there was another spider person on his turf—and, in fact, he didn’t know. Not until about 20 months ago when Peter caught Miles wrestling with the Rhino in a Spidey-inspired costume. Wrestling and losing.

Meeting Miles had been almost as emotionally charged as seeing a distraught Cindy chasing after Spider-Man. Rhino, as it turned out, clipped Jefferson Davis (aka Miles’ dad) during his successful escape attempt, sending the cop to the hospital. Miles, who’d kept his superhuman abilities under wraps for almost 6 years, saw this as a failure on his own part. Why did he have these powers in the first place if all he was going to do was watch other people get hurt?

This, he’d screamed at Peter, vibrating with tension and grief.

But if it was anyone’s fault that Rhino was free and hurt a cop, it was Peter’s own. There was no way this was the responsibility of some good-hearted kid from Brooklyn.

Miles and Peter would butt heads over that concept quite a bit, as it turned out. But, in the end, Jefferson recovered, the Rhino was locked up, and the temporary alliance between Miles and Peter saw its final hours.

But once the top was popped, there was no going back for Miles. He was still itching to do good, to help more people. He wanted to work with Peter to get it done—and, on top of that, Miles knew every button he had to push to get Peter to roll over and be his mentor.

So Peter rolled over. With some reluctance (and many stipulations), Peter took Miles under his wings. When Miles proved himself to be an eager student who kept his promises, he even added Miles to his Spidey Clone Army.

And that was that. Spider-Man/Kid Arachnid had been the last clone Peter ever had, as it turned out, and Silk had been his first. He used them both sparingly in a lineup that included Sam Wilson, Clint Barton, Scott Lang, Matt Murdock, Johnny Storm, and Reed Richards. Even the Black Panther himself had stepped in Peter’s shoes on one or three occasions.

Aware of the growing number of villains and criminals who hated him, Peter didn’t use people lightly. He only tapped his stand-ins for specific routes or a specific task, usually as payment for some other favor Peter had done for them prior. But it was the favors that got him in trouble with his non-spider people.

Peter had done the supers of New York City so many favors that it resulted in an unintentional stockpile of personal information about New York City’s biggest and best superheroes. And those superheroes had nothing on Peter. Not a name, not an age, and certainly not even a face. Of all the people in the Spidey Clone Army, Silk was the only one who knew such personal things—and even she would have been in the dark had Peter been more savvy about his spidey sense.

Peter hadn’t considered the impact of this information on his friends until they collectively decided to stop working with him until he revealed his identity. Then all hell broke loose when Norman Osborn inadvertently brainwashed their best guess of his identity—Harry Osborn—into believing he was the real Spider-Man. And then when Harry attacked Jessica, all of them—Spidey Clone Army included—turned against Peter.

In fact, only three stayed neutral throughout it, but only because they didn’t know what was going on. T’Challa, as a ruler of an entire nation, didn’t particularly care to track the ups and downs of the years old friction between the various groups in New York. As he revealed to Peter later, he’d completely missed the anti-Spidey sentiment. As far as his fellow spiders went, Miles himself had been neck deep in some awesome STEM camp in Colorado at the height of the Vitanova/Green Goblin crises, and Cindy was traveling abroad with her boyfriend. She hadn’t found out about tensions in New York City until she’d come back, and by that point, Peter was hiding in Queens, victorious but licking his wounds. Miles had come back about three weeks sooner and panicked, thinking Peter was actually dead.

Peter hadn’t thought to check in with either of them after everything, and their only source of information they had to rely on was the press conference that the Avengers put on afterwards. Peter had received quite the earful from them both when he started patrolling him again.

Did he really have to get it again?

“Last year was so… last year. Can we move on?” Miles snorted, annoyed. Getting annoyed himself, Peter put his hands on his hips. “Look. I got beat up and chewed out for all of that already. Haven’t I suffered enough?”

“See!” Miles said. “That right there.” He hopped on one foot twice, pointing at Peter. “You just don’t get it. You think this is all about punishment, and it’s not. It’s about teamwork.” The lens of his mask flexed wide with his earnestness. “You got so many people in your court, man. _I could have been there for you._ Haven’t you heard of the phrase ‘many hands make light work’?”

Peter crossed his arms over his chest, unimpressed. “You’re barely 16-“

“17!” Miles hissed, shooting a worried look at Silk. He stood taller, like throwing his shoulders back was going to make him look older.

“I’m not going to put a target on your back. Ever,” Peter said firmly. If they were so concerned about Peter’s identity, who knew what their reaction would be to a new, unknown person throwing themselves in the fray? “If you were working with me then, that’s exactly what would have happened-”

But Cindy interjected. “You don’t know that,” she said. She was no longer smiling.

But Miles charged forward with his point, not hearing her. “That’s my decision to make, isn’t it?” His voice was raw with feeling. “I’ve never cared who you are behind the mask, and neither should they. It’s your actions that matter! Right?”

His last word rang out in the empty streets, uncharacteristically upset. Speechless, Peter just looked at him. He wondered how long Miles had been bottling this up, unwilling to bring it up because everyone else just wanted to move on. Or how much Miles watched Peter and worried for his own chances at revealing his identity.

One of their many stipulations was that Miles kept out of the limelight and that he kept up his grades. As a result, Miles was rarely caught on camera—and when he was, Peter always claimed that he was Miles. Just trying out a different suit.

Yet, one day, Miles was going to want to step out on his own, and when he did, he would need to reconcile his need to be Spider-Man with his father’s anti-vigilante stance. There was a lot of love in that household, but that didn’t stop Miles from being afraid. Peter’s sloppy attempts at releasing the reigns on his own secret identity couldn’t be helping—and Miles didn’t even know the half of the mess Peter had made.

Cindy slid in between them, breaking Peter’s train of thought. “And I, for that matter, do know who you are,” she reminded him, hanging off his shoulder. “And as uncool as it was for all them to put their foot down over something so stupid, your stubbornness is even worse.” She knocked her head lightly into his. “And you know it.”

Peter stared at her dark eyes for a moment longer before looking down at his feet. 

His allies and friends were not particularly interested in his identity so much as they were interested in his trust. Even now, Steve was fine with just his first name. It was a gesture, a metaphor, a crumbling of the wall Peter strained so hard to keep up for so many years. A wall he was starting to question. A stubbornness, as Cindy would say. An inability to ask for help, Miles might think.

Peter shook his head twice, suddenly rueful. Was he seriously still defending his actions from last year? He consciously let go of the tension in his neck and shoulders, laughing quietly at himself. “…You got me there.” Old habits died hard, it seemed. He was painting himself in the same corners he swore he would never visit again. He was choosing to keep people at arm’s length and deciding on their behalf what level of truth or danger or trust they would be rationed that day.

He was just so… tired of that. So tired of being wrong. So tired of being isolated because of his own choices. So tired being on the edge and being ready for danger to come around any corner.

Miles was right, after all. Peter had so many people at his back. He could take a chance and put his life in the hands of his friends. They were hardly perfect—look at Johnny’s specular fail in backing Peter up tonight—but hell, neither was he. And if he died or he failed, at least he wasn’t going out alone.

“What if I said I need some of those many hands now?” Peter couldn’t have said a more magical phrase. Miles pivoted to him eagerly, body language open, and Cindy made a humming, interested sound in the back of her throat, sounding distinctly pleased.

But later, he’d regret what he followed it up with.

“You got anything on a guy named the Benefactor?”

-

Wade awoke with the sudden awareness that someone was looking at him. Clutching his phone to his chest like a newborn baby, his other hand dropped immediately to the side of his bed. He stopped when his fingers fondled the barrel of his Desert Eagle.

Then he smiled, relaxing, his triggered dangy sense gaining new context. He rolled over, stretching. “You’re lucky I wasn’t spooning my katanas, Miss Uninvited Guest.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t stick my gun in your crotch,” said his intruder from deep in the shadows. “Thanks for the mental image, though.”

Natasha Romanoff turned on the light, frowning down at him. Then, slowly, the corner of her mouth swung up in a smirk. “You’re slacking. I remember a time where even touching one of your windows could trigger a bomb.”

“That was before a certain spider-boy started hitting me up for a booty call.”

She was dressed in civilian clothes—a leather jacket, a relaxed t-shirt, and hip hugging jeans. Her red hair was piled at the nape of her neck in a messy bun. Despite her initial threat, her hands were distinctly gun free, though he could swear he saw a bit of her gun holster poking out underneath her jacket. She was not here on official Avengers business, that much was clear.

Besides, Wade tended to warrant the full _America_ experience. If Wade was a more cynical person—or if Steve was less of a straight shooter, no pun intended—Wade would have figured Steve was the type to want to see how his investment was working out himself.

Natasha was wrinkling her nose at him. “That’s gross.” She walked out of his room.

“Don’t act like you aren’t jelly. I know you’re single and ready to mingle.” When that got no response, Wade threw alternatives at her back. “Single as a Pringle? Alone and needing to bone? Fly and ready to lie? _Eager to wring that wang, perhaps_?”

Silence. Former SHIELD agents, for the record? No fun. No sense of joy or spontaneity. 0/10, do not recommend.

Wade sat up with a groan, rubbing his stiff neck. He yawned. Still cradling his phone, he stumbled after her, rubbing crusties away from his eyes. “I don’t remember giving you the address to my new digs. Or the key.”

“What an unnecessary thing to say,” Natasha said dryly, digging through his fridge. Wade supposed it was. After all, Natasha was a super spy. A super spy currently doing the sniff test on Wade’s very brand-new milk carton—which, uh, _rude._ Wade was totally competent at adulting. He had his adulting certificate on his wall and everything. No spoiled milk in this house!

Clearly deciding not to risk it, Natasha put it back in the fridge. Hanging on the back of one of his kitchen table chairs, Wade pouted at her as she turned around. She leaned against the counter, one eyebrow raised. “I’ve got a lead on the 3 Century Kings, and I want to nail them before I leave for my mission tomorrow. Want to back me up?”

“Oh?” Wade was already pulling on his boots. Mentally, anyway. His boots were all the way across the room—ugh, so far. “They the ones chit-chatting about offing a superhero to make a name for themselves?”

Natasha’s smile was unsettling. “The very ones.” Too many teeth, maybe.

Grumbling, Wade pushed himself in the general direction of his shoes. His grip on his phone loosened—a mistake. But Wade’s sloppy, post-sleep reflexes were still kickass, so he caught it before it hit the floor.

The display screen turned on, lighting up a long text chain between him and Peter. Distracted, Wade swiped upwards, looking at the pictures Peter sent of himself just a few hours before. It would have been comical, Peter’s awkward attempts, if he hadn’t been trying to twist and show Wade the long gash in the back of his suit where the extra dense fabric was weaker. Peter had been asking for tips on a redesign, already thinking ahead for the future, but Wade had been—still was—fixated on the sliced up suit.

Plenty of people took swipes at superheroes, that was just a fact of life. But it made Wade’s blood boil to see people taking swipes at _his_ superhero.

Feeling eyes on him, Wade looked up from his phone. His hands clenched on the phone tight enough to make the plastic case squeak. He was maskless, he realized. Suitless. Barefoot and vulnerable in a pair of gray sweatpants and a Hello Kitty tank top.

Sardonically, he smirked. How was this going to go?

Don’t get him wrong. He oh, so wanted to play it cool. But he also didn’t like people seeing him without his mask. Sure, a lot of people had, and some even recently, but they hardly counted! Afterall, he’d somehow conned Peter into thinking his visage was kissable and even loveable, and May and Ben Parker were sweet people who didn’t hold his Frankenstein face against him. But that didn’t stop his neighbors from flinching when he entered the elevator looking like the Hulk’s regurgitated remains of Chili Wednesday.

Mentally hurling all sorts of insults at himself, Wade finally looked at Natasha again, waiting for some visible reaction to the shitshow that was his entire body.

But one of the things he kept forgetting he liked about Natasha was her skill at Not Looking at things. She was always looking beyond him or at something else, feigning complete disinterest in his face. Wade relaxed a smidge. If only more people made an effort Not to Look at certain things, the world would be a much better place.

Although, now that he thought about it, contextual blindness was totes a thing. Wade was just talking about people not drawing attention to things that made others self-conscious about their own bodies, but hell—look at the current state of politics! Right? _Right?_

Anyhoo. If she was gonna ignore it, so was he. He loved the ignoring game. He kept walking.

“Your mission. You have backup or handler or something, right?” Wade opened up the closet nearest to the front door. He pulled out the false back that kept his goodies out of sight. “Someone to make sure you exit your cover alright?”

Natasha followed him, idly biting into an apple. “You’re assuming I’m still doing undercover. Me? The one who got outed to the entire Internet?” She reached out a hand. “Give me another coat? It’s cold out.”

Wade rifled through the first layer of the closet, tossing her a coat at random. “Never did understand why a superspy turned into a superhero,” Wade gripped, pulling out his utility belt—and his freshest, cleanest suit. It still had dried sriracha sauce in the crotch. Licking his thumb, he tried to scrub it clean. “Seems like one of those lateral career moves that breaks 90% of your skillset.”

“Only if you lack creativity.” Natasha audibly sniffed the jacket before coughing. “Yeesh. Tell your boy to go easy on the cologne.

Wade looked over his shoulder to see Natasha gingerly handling Peter’s navy blue winter coat. “He’s not a pre-teen boy wielding a can of Axe body spray. Besides, I like it. I bought it for him.”

Maybe Wade was being defensive. Peter was very much not a cologne wearer. Even his deodorant and shampoo were unscented. Wade suspected that was because Peter’s senses were a bit more heightened than he let on. But after Wade bought him that cologne, Peter never failed to dab on a little in the morning.

It was getting to the point that Wade was starting to have a Pavlovian reaction to the scent, associating it with Peter. He was glad he picked an obscure smell from overseas. Otherwise, with his luck, he would be that person to get a stiffy on the subway over some rando.

“I’m about to drop trou, so unless you want a free stage show-”

Natasha immediately went back to the kitchen, calling out over her shoulder, “Thanks for the warning. This time.”

Gleeful, Wade dropped his sweatpants around his ankles. “I can’t help that the bathrooms are all unisex at the Compound. We’re all professionals here!”

Natasha muttered something rude in Russian, and Wade got the hint to get his butt in gear. Literally.

He was armed and dressed in three minutes flat—a new record! If only that record didn’t come with a wedgie. 

But it wasn’t the wedgie that made him pause. It was a new text.

_Want to patrol with me?_

Wade’s smile fell as he looked down at the message. The temptation was real. Petey only had an hour or so left in his usual patrol window. Of course, a guy like Peter could get a lot done in 60 minutes! But it was late enough (early enough?) in his self-assigned shift to suggest a timeout of the foodie variety. Imagine it—romantic tacos under a bridge. Or french fries in the moonlight. Or maybe even 17 of those horribly awesome donut-egg-sausage sandwiches from their favorite bodega when it opened in about an hour. Any of those things would be good.

Hell, things had been so quiet and peaceful around New York lately, Wade might even be able to talk Peter into coming home early.

“You still with me, big guy?” Natasha asked. She was standing by the front door now, watching him. She looked deceptively tiny, Peter’s jacket enveloping her like a marshmallow. She had it zipped up almost to her nose.

Wade was conflicted. The intel so far indicated that the 3 Century Kings were merely seven bored guys who drank too much on Fridays and talked shit about the wrong people. But someone had already taken a swipe at Wade’s favorite superhero tonight.

Now that he thought about it, maybe he wasn’t so conflicted after all.

He quickly typed a response back to Peter. _Can’t. Have plans. Rain check?_

Wade didn’t wait for a reply back and shoved his phone back in his utility belt. “Let’s go, ScarJo.”

“Still don’t get that reference,” Natasha said wryly, pulling open the door and letting herself out.

The 3 Century Kings were fucked. By the time they realized they were dealing with Black Widow and Deadpool, they were going to wish they had never even heard of superheroes.

-

“ _Murdock here._ ” Matt’s voice rang through, loud and clear. He sounded a little tired and a little annoyed, as usual, like someone had twisted his arm to record a voicemail greeting. _“Please leave your name and message-_ ”

“Goddamn it,” Jessica swore. Matt’s bland lawyer voice made her want to pull her hair out. Even so, for the 10th time, she patiently waited for the beep. “Hey, dickhead. Answer your goddamn phone once in a while. You’re making me feel like a desperate stalker—and we both know I hate that.” She hesitated, wondering if she should say something else.

She shook her head and ended the call. She looked up at the sky, but the black nothingness inspired no comfort. Troubled, she sucked in a breath, then it out in a plume of fog. It was getting cold, she registered, so she grumpily marched her way back into Alias Investigations.

So. Two of the four Defenders weren’t talking to her. Great. Jessica was never gonna be Miss Popular, but she’d settle for Miss Gets Some Follow-up From Her Friends. Fuckers. 

Whatever. It wasn’t personal. Maybe she should take a leaf from Luke’s book and just go on vacation. Beyond Matt’s decapitated husband case (a case she still knew nothing about), things were pretty quiet for Alias Investigations. There was no point in her digging her feet in, waiting for the next disaster. And yes, the next disaster was overdue, but she was walking pretty tall these days. Not every PI had a direct line to the world's most infamous scientific explorers or to Earth’s mightiest heroes. Those days of working alone were far, far behind her.

“But where would I even go?” Jessica mused, putting her feet up on her desk.

“Anywhere but here,” Wanda said distractedly from the other desk. She should have been gone for hours already, but she was still here, looking at receipts. Jessica wasn’t the only one with bouts of insomnia, it seemed. “Maybe with you gone, I’ll finally be able to clean up our finances.”

“I can fire you at any time, Avenger,” Jessica threatened, biting down a smile. Wanda shot her an impressive glower. Snickering, Jessica pulled her feet off the table. She scooted closer to her computer, pulling up her browser. “Decisions, decisions…”

Wanda let her painstakingly peck out a few labored ideas in her browser before throwing out a viable option. “If you go to California, Tony will let you stay in his Malibu mansion.”

“…You’re shitting me.”

Wanda read her disbelief from a mile away and just smirked. “Tony is a lot of things, yes. But he is also a very, very good host.”

And suddenly living it up like a Stark for a weekend or two had some promise. Jessica swung back to her computer. With an actual destination in mind, her brainstorming went a lot quicker. She even started picturing it. It had been a long time since she’d set foot in California. She hated winter in New York. If she remembered Los Angeles correctly, winter really wasn’t much of a thing besides some rain here and there.

But she had no sooner found a tempting round trip plane ticket when a tip came in from just around the corner. Paramedics were flying hot towards a possible crime, and all signs pointed to it being a particularly brutal scene. 

Jessica grabbed her camera and hauled ass downstairs, jogging the rest of the way and leaving Wanda behind.

Once she was outside of her building, she didn’t need any further directions. Sirens and flashing lights lit up the street like a circus. She headed towards it. The cops didn’t question her presence, not even when she ducked the caution tape. Sure, Jessica was working more with the FBI nowadays—that was what happened when you made a dent in an organized crime syndicate, and people noticed—but she still did significant consultant jobs with the NYPD. Mostly on homicides.

And there was no doubt this was homicide. Once they arrived on scene, the EMTs had no urgency, just a grim look, and she quickly saw why.

Death came in a lot of forms, but rarely in one so crushed. A man was crumbled against the wall, neck at an angle that would have hurt if he wasn’t very clearly dead with a smashed skull. He was tucked in an alley just out of sight of the street, and he had a halo of groceries around his body—junk food, sodas, and a six-pack of beer. It was hard to tell what his age or ethnicity was, given all the blood and the crushing.

Sighing with a wince, Jessica crouched well away from the body. There was no way this was done by a regular person, she thought, and lifted up her camera.

But she was almost immediately hauled back up to her feet by a harsh grip on her elbow. “Hey, buy me dinner first,” she barked automatically.

When she lifted her eyes, she was surprised to see Captain Watanabe—or Yuri, as Peter frequently called her. Her mouth was thinned out in a long line, and it was immediately apparent that whatever goodwill Spider-Man had won with her didn’t extend to other supers.

“This is an active crime investigation,” said the captain sternly.

“I’m aware,” Jessica said, shaking her arm free. “Look, I work with Detective Martine-”

“I don’t care,” Yuri barked. “Beat it.”

Jessica stared at her for a long moment, registering the woman’s stiff posture and tight expression. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she looked incredibly tired. Almost brittle. Jessica wasn’t the most sensitive person in the world, but she could read pain and anguish in others like a book. She didn’t know where it was coming from, but she knew when to back off.

“Okay,” Jessica said gently. “You got it.” She fished out her card and gave it to Yuri. “If you change your mind-”

Yuri didn’t take the card. “I won’t.”

Nodding once, Jessica pocketed her card. Aware she was being watched, she immediately turned around and walked back to the caution tape. She let out a low, frustrated breath as she went. That poor man. There was no way he was killed by the NYPD’s garden variety criminal. Not even a sledgehammer could mimic the shape of that man’s mortal injury.

As she ducked under the tape, she allowed herself one last look back.

Far from a hardened cop with a chip over one her shoulder, Yuri Watanabe stood over the dead man with a slumped, defeated posture, her head in her hands.

-

Wade crawled back into his apartment with a groan three days after he’d left it. He was fucking exhausted. Sure, he was superhuman with kickass stamina and an overactive healing factor, but he was no energizer bunny. Fatigue kicked his ass like everyone else. It just took longer.

But it had all been worth it in the end. Even Steve wouldn’t have found fault with what he and Natasha did, even with his dislike of punishing people for crimes they hadn’t committed yet.

See, four days ago, the 3 Century Kings kidnapped an out-of-state mutant teenage girl and her very normal boyfriend as they did cutesy tourist shit around town. Unfortunately, the girl’s mutation was a physical one that gave her horns, purple skin, and literally nothing else. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Not even a strength mutation or flashy fire powers. Other than those two physical changes that marked her as a mutant, the girl was horrifically, painfully normal—and not at all up to the task of brawling her way to freedom.

Fortunately for her (and her beau), the 3 Century Kings were utter chickenshits. They’d spooked themselves with the mere act of going through a kidnapping, so much so that they spent most of the time drinking to cope, only kicking the teenagers around when they were too drunk to forget they were afraid.

Wade and Natasha taught them a thing or two about fear, don’t you worry. But that was the fun part, and the shortest bit. The rest of it was looping SHIELD (and the rest of the Avengers) into the unsanctioned assignment so they could help treat the teenagers and bundle them back into the arms of their loving parents. This, of course, was followed up by a lecture about not going rogue, which Natasha heroically took the brunt of—mostly by stubbornly sticking to her story of following up on a lead given to her by concerned citizens. This put Steve in an awkward position, one that she took advantage of mercilessly.

“Do you not want me in the Neighborhood Watch, Steve?” she’d asked with faux-innocence, as if she didn’t rightly know that this clashed with everything that Steve had been saying recently about being more transparent and accountable to their neighbors.

That had made Steve pause, and pause for a very long time. “…I hate you,” Steve had said finally, defeated.

He’d made them submit full reports, though, which was both unfair and required a trip to the Compound. Wade would have thought ‘going rogue’ meant he could rip up the report forms and dance around in their remains like it was confetti. 

Hence the three day departure and Wade’s exhaustion—and the explanation behind why his first reaction to the sight of rose petals on the ground was to freeze.

And why his second reaction was to break a chair over his knee, exposing many pieces of sharp, stabby wood.

Peter skidded into the room at the sound, on high alert. He was barefoot and clearly in the middle of changing out of his work clothes, his tie hanging desperately on to one shoulder. “I- you? Wade?”

“Um.” Wade looked at the chair. Then he looked back at his wide-eyed boo. He squinted. “Hypothetically. How much would you judge me if I thought for a second—just a second—that you were de-souled David Boreanaz?”

Slowly, the tension in Peter’s shoulders started to fade. “A lot, probably.” Uh oh. There came the arms, crossing. He hated when they were crossing! Peter always looked like he was hugging himself, and, damn it, Wade wanted to be the one that hugged him. Boo. Not fair.

If Wade wanted to skip ahead to the cuddles portion of the night, he had to tread carefully.

“Huh,” he said casually. He looked down at the broken chair, then swung his gaze back up to Peter again. He squinted. “Hypothetically. How much would you judge me if all this was to kill a _cockroach_ instead-”

“Wade…” Peter muttered with a sigh. He sounded defeated—uh oh. “Whatever. I guess your reaction just shows how shitty I am at romantic gestures.” He had a pinched look between his eyebrows.

Romantic gestures? Wade’s attention darted around the room, noticing all the little details he’d missed—the petals leading to the dining table. The plates and utensils. The softly burning candles. The dimmed lights that served to highlight the backdrop of the city they both protected. The quiet music coming from one of their music players.

Aw, shit. He’d bumbled in like the Rhino in a china shop, completely missing everything. Peter was about as romantic as a three-day old breakfast burrito left under a couch. But he knew Wade was all about the Big, Romantic Moves, even if Wade fucked them up half the time. It was why half of Wade’s movie collection was sappy chick flicks, and why Peter’s was full of dull shit like documentaries on shear thinning substances and British TV dramas. 

“No, no,” Wade said, eyes darting around the decorated space. Fuck. _Fuck._ “It was, uh. Cute?”

“No, it’s not,” Peter said, exasperated. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it lightly as he frowned at the rest of the apartment. “It can’t be. I wasn’t finished.” He gestured, frustrated, down at himself. “And here I am, still dressed in work clothes and-”

“You mean that,” Wade said, cutting him off. When Peter paused, Wade advanced, curling his gloved fingers into Peter’s white collar. “This, in fact. My favorite suit.”

Peter raised his eyebrows at the extra syllables Wade gave to _favorite_. “Is it really?” His words were dry.

“Abso-freaking-lutely.” Wade’s voice dropped appreciatively. “Don’t be coy. You know I go crazy for you in business attire.” He wasn’t lying either. Woof. The sight of his honey in his business suit always made Wade want to earn a fic an Explicit rating, if you know what I mean. “You look just so yummy and professional and _stern_ -”

Wade’s teasing was paying off, slowly but surely. Peter still looked tired and sad, but his eyes were sparking with something more like amusement now.

Wade was suddenly stung with the realization that he couldn’t remember the last time Peter had smiled at him. How long ago was it? Maybe a week? Surely not since their night with Uncle Ben and Aunt May.

A little unsteady at this thought, Wade continued, “Yeah, Mr. Parker, tell me about the earnings this quarter.” He swayed into Peter suggestively, tugging on his collar a little harder. “Show me your audited… _financials_ -”

Peter finally snorted, his arms falling from around his torso. He dropped his head, resting it against Wade’s chest for a moment. Wade paused in his game of Distract-The-Peter, feeling a sharp pang of affection for the man in front of him. Slowly, almost unsure if he was allowed, Wade wrapped his arms around Peter’s body, curling him into a gentle hug.

Peter just sighed, leaning into him more. “Still. I ruined it.” His mumble was muffled further by Wade’s suit, but Wade could hear him just fine.

“You ruined nothing,” Wade said, effortlessly besotted. He shouldn’t beat himself up over Wade’s poor timing. “You’re perfect.”

“Yeah, right. Sounds like something my husband would say.” As if just registering his own words, Peter tensed. He jerked his head up, his expression mimicking a deer in headlights.

There was a knot in Wade’s throat. “Yeah, well, he sounds like a great judge of character.” He tried to turn it into a joke. Tried, tried, tried-

Peter still looked pained, like he usually did when he ventured too close to being too honest, too quickly. Wade loosened his arms, giving Peter the room to skip a step backwards—which he did. Almost immediately. Wade felt the distance like a punch in the gut and would have preferred just that—the punch. One step forward, two steps back. Always.

“I guess I… should have done better to guard myself against 90’s references?”

Lightening up at the olive branch, Wade huffed dramatically, putting his fists on his hips. “You’re right, it’s a pretty big flaw of yours. You know how formative the 90s were for me!”

Peter let out a raspy laugh at that, the sarcastic little shit. He had his hands looped together, uncertainly, in front of him. He looked apologetic. But more than that, he looked drained. There was ink on his fingers. There were bags under his eyes. His hair was a haphazard mess—and he was so fucking attractive in that moment, vulnerable and self-conscious as he was.

Wade wanted to bite him. He wanted to sweep Peter off his feet. And, most of all, he wanted to back Peter up into his bedroom so Wade could show him a few more ideas he had for Peter’s thin, sexy tie.

But Wade’s cell was ringing. He answered it, turning away from Peter. “Hi, this is the city morgue. You kill ‘em, we chill ‘em.”

“Wade,” Peter said behind him, exasperated.

Wade flapped a hand at him. Who cared? It was only Danny. Fuck Danny.

On the other end of the phone, Danny cut to the chase.

“A lone Doombot? In Central Park?” Wade repeated. “I thought old Doc Doom was a quantity over quality kind of guy. Are we sure this isn’t his ass backwards way of congratulating the Four on their new itty bitty member?”

Danny didn’t speculate, mostly because something exploded on his end. The call cut off. Maybe the bot was programmed with a dislike of people who were preoccupied with his phones. It was the real Doc’s pet peeve. Hell, last time Wade had been kidnapped by him, the real Doc cut off Wade’s arm for playing _Kissy Kissy Meow Meow_ in his cell.

He’d only opened the game _after_ he’d texted the Avengers for an assist, thank you. He wasn’t dumb.

Anyway, Wade’d been trying to unlock the backstory of this cute nerd with a secret past, but Doom’s temper tantrum over his phone usage cost him all of his progress. The _jerk_.

“Honey, I gotta-” Go, he was going to say. But he turned around to see that Peter had already suited up in Wade’s other favorite costume of his.

Peter raised an eyebrow at Wade, tightening his flat utility belt under his suit. “Central Park? We can be there in five minutes… if you’re still okay with me swinging you around like a trapeze artist, that is.”

Peter had a grim, focused look on his face that Wade usually loved to see. But Peter’s automatic assumption of responsibility in this was the exact opposite of what Wade wanted. It would also put Wade in a bit of a pickle. The supers of New York City (minus Spider-Man at the moment) were working on piloting a more unified and cohesive response system to local crises and issues, and Wade, simply by virtue of bullying everyone involved, was considered somewhat of the de facto leader of the attempt. 

Now as much as Wade liked to claim that he exuded a natural charisma (like a Bob Ross or Tom Hanks type), Peter knew him too well. He’d start to ask questions, questions Wade didn’t have the right answers to, and Wade wouldn’t blame him either.

Wade ran things, alright. He ran them straight into the ground. No brakes. Michael Bay explosions. _Yeah._

“No, it’s okay. I got this,” Wade said firmly. Peter paused in the middle of pulling his mask on. Wade shot him a smile that was a little too thin lipped to be reassuring. “It’s just a Doom bot, Petey. No need to whip out the ace up our sleeve.”

Peter didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he tugged his mask free and started fiddling with it. “This might not be the right time to ask, but… are we okay?”

“Of course we are. Why would you ask that?” Wade said distractedly, checking his ammo. His phone buzzed with an update—War Machine and The Thing had already joined Iron Fist in Central Park. Hawkeye and Yukio were five minutes out. Was it overkill? Probably. Wade had never been accused of underkilling a thing in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Though maybe he needed to make less fart noises next time Stark brought up his disaster rating idea. It had some potential, sure. Whatever. Basically, Stark’s system would use sensors to assess the situation, gather data, and bring everything back to FRIDAY so the AI could rate it. The more dangerous it was, the higher the disaster rating. FRIDAY would then contact certain people (based on skills, location, or their own rating) to respond straight to the scene.

It was not only doable, it was also plausible and likely to work. Even so, Wade had some reservations. He was no stranger to triaging a situation, by himself or with tools. But trusting some algorithm to control the roll-out of superheroes didn’t seem right. Wade knew better than anyone that sometimes a victory came through desperate hail mary tactics, hand-wavy plot mechanics, or sheer dumb luck—and it was hard to control for that secret sauce in a simple team assignment. Even if it was guided by Stark’s highly advanced AI.

But maybe there was a place for Stark’s system in all of this.

So yeah. Less fart noises. _Fine._

“Lately, you’ve just been… distant,” Peter said carefully. He was frowning. 

“Just been busy. You know how it is.” Wade immediately winced. Oof. That was not kind, turning it around on Peter like that. He was learning all sorts of things about himself today. “Point is, we’re golden, honey badger.” Wade leaned in to kiss his cheek.

But Peter dodged backwards. “You say that, but you really don’t show it.” His back hit a wall and he stopped. His eyes dropped to the ground, his shoulders tightening as if in anticipation of a blow. “So what is it really? Why don’t we work together anymore? Do you not trust me? Did I… do something?” Peter hesitated, then his eyes jumped back up to Wade. “Or is this all because I rejected your marriage proposal?”

Wade was stunned. He was reminded that, as much as Peter avoided confrontation, he also had a nasty habit of switching back and ripping the bandage off, shining a spotlight on the elephant in the room.

And Wade was horrified to realize that, for all of his planning and prepping and resource gathering, Wade wasn’t still ready to talk about it. Talking about it here would cheapen it, _ruin_ it.

His heart was racing. His face was flushing. He wasn’t ready. Wasn’t ready. _Wasn’t ready-_

“Oh, please,” he snapped. “Don’t turn this into one of your Peter things.”

Peter flinched, eyes wide. Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_ -

And Wade’s phone was ringing again. He had to fight the urge to throw it out the window.

Wade let out a long, low breath. “Hold on, Petey. There’s apparently a fucking crisis.”

“Then go to it,” Peter said, turning his back on Wade. He went to Wade’s bedroom. “I won’t be here when you get back. I can take a hint.”

Forget the phone. Wade wanted to hurl himself out the window. How had this gotten so bad? Was he incapable of fucking things up? He answered the phone. “What?”

Johnny Storm was on the other end. “Hey, I saw something throw a tree in Central Park. Are you putting a team together or what?”

“Yeah, and you’re leading it,” Wade barked. He watched Peter shrugging his work clothes over his suit. He was really leaving.

“What?” Johnny squawked. “I can’t do that, I’ve never-”

Wade was merciless. “Listen, you have two tanks, a Legolas, a X-Person, a dollop of cultural appropriation, and a partridge in a pear tree. Can you handle this on your own?” Peter walked by him, fully dressed, his destination the front door. Wade caught his elbow before he could make it half-way across Wade’s apartment. “Great. Handle it. I’m not coming.”

Johnny was rapidly running through the five stages of grief. “Wait. Wait, Colonel Rhodes is here. Why can Rhodey be the one in-”

“Bargain on your own time, Flame Boy,” Wade snarled and hung up.

“…let go of me,” Peter said evenly. He was staring at the floor.

Wade did instantly and not just because Peter could easily launch him through a wall. He had respect for Peter’s autonomy. He just didn’t know how else to stop him. Or rather, he did, but he was afraid.

Words were what he needed. Communication. And Peter, the master of miscommunication, had opened himself up just now for honest words, and Wade had slapped him down in fear.

And now Peter was leaving again, silent and unapproachable, each step more final than the last. Wade needed to _person up_ and say what he needed to say, even if he wasn’t ready for it, but his voice was failing him. His courage was failing him. And now Peter’s hand was on the door-

“Honey, if you told me what I wanted to hear instead of what I needed to hear, then we would have been right back at square one!”

Peter froze. He turned around, finally pulling his eyes off the floor. They were very wide and very bright, betraying Peter’s upset in a way his words tried to hide. He looked like he was about to cry. 

Wade made an involuntary noise in his throat, his own eyes heating up. He stayed careful, though, and he stayed slow, closing the space between them with lingering steps. He pulled off his mask as an afterthought, tossing it towards the couch, missing. He wanted Peter to see the truth in his words.

“I’m not gonna lie, honey—I was bummed. At first.” Miraculously, Peter wasn’t running. He wasn’t glaring. He wasn’t spitting out insults and telling Wade to get out of his life. He was stiff but still present, eyes glued to Wade’s face. Wade’s resolve strengthened. “But you know what you told me when you said no?”

Peter didn’t answer immediately. When it did come, it came in the form of a tortured whisper. “That I didn’t love you as much as you loved me?”

“No, Peter,” Wade said, concerned. But not surprised. He cupped his honey’s face between both hands. “You told me that you trusted me. That you knew you were safe with me, even if we’re in disagreement. And, Peter, that’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.” Wade waited a beat, then shrugged. “Well, as romantic as it could have been without _rose petals_ …”

Peter huffed at the reminder of this night. His torso dropped just a little bit, shoulders loosening. “Too much?” he asked wryly and just a bit nasally. His hand curled around one of Wade’s wrists, but he made no attempt to break the contact.

“Ya basic,” Wade noted critically. “But I love you anyway.” He quickly turned serious, shaking his head slowly. “Somehow, I tricked you into a long-term relationship, and, baby, it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, but I-”

“I want you to feel safe with me too,” Peter interrupted, hand tightening on his wrist.

“I do. That’s why I asked you to marry me.” Wade grinned down at him. “You make me feel as safe as houses, honey. I trust you.”

This declaration only made Peter frown. “But I said-”

“I know what you said. And why you said it.” And Wade would prove his understanding of the burdens Peter carried and how willing he was to share that burden. But only once he had everything perfect. Only then. “And you weren’t wrong to say no. You’re feeling guilty. I can’t ask you to stop. I know that. Just-”

Wade stopped and blew out a frustrated breath. Peter needed him to say things, but there was so much he wasn’t ready to say. Peter was right—there was a new level of distance between them. But Peter was wrong too. It had nothing to do with any change in their relationship. No, Wade was genuinely just… busy.

Contrary to most people’s thoughts, Wade was not spending every waking, non-Avenger moment planning a wedding. No. He was spending every waking, non-Avenger moment trying to work out the kinks in _getting Spider-Man more backup_. The wedding planning was an accident. Those tasks were fired out as a snarky joke to Sue and Reed when they asked if they could do something more to help. He was just as surprised as everyone else when they started giving progress updates on that too. Word got around, and suddenly Wade was planning a wedding for a groom who had straight up given him the red light.

What a mess.

“…Just know that being safe with me means you can say no whenever,” he said finally, releasing Peter. “When I ask you to marry me again someday, the right answer—the only answer—is the one that’s in your heart. Even if it’s not the one I want to hear. Okay?”

“Okay,” Peter said. He rubbed at his face with his sleeve.

That too casual gesture hurt, reminding Wade that he had a lot more to do to make this up to Peter. “I should have asked you how you felt about it, and I didn’t,” he said with regret. “That’s on me.”

Truth was, he had been afraid what would happen if he asked Peter too much about that slipup three weeks ago. He didn’t want to initiate an epiphany that Peter could do so much better than Wade. No, he’d been content to sweep it under the rug. Bury it, file it, whatever. Just don’t change the status quo, please. _Please._

“I could have started that conversation too,” Peter countered, still rubbing at his face. One brown eye opened, peeking over his hand. “But should we really be workshopping our communication issues while a Doom Bot is wrecking Central Park?”

…

Well, fuck. Peter had probably been leaving to deal with the situation himself _like a responsible person_ before Wade up and vomited his feelings everywhere. God, Wade was the shittiest superhero ever. Case in point, here was a scenario: If he had to choose between saving the world and saving Peter, fuck the world. Hands down. No contest.

Stark was right. No one should trust him with these things.

Wade’s phone rang, as if to underline Peter’s concern. “Mother fucking shit on shingle.”

“The breadth of your vocabulary is awe inspiring,” Peter said dryly. He was clear eyed and unbuttoning his shirt again. Not in a fun, bow chicka wow wow kind of way, though. All business. Superhero business.

“Eat my shorts,” Wade retorted, disappointed. He answered the phone. “ _What._ ”

“The target’s been neutralized,” Cable said shortly. Well. Wasn’t that convenient. “Night’s calm too. Quiet. Nice night to stay in. Should probably talk to Johnny about his shitty leadership style. He seems to have been copying you in that regard. Lots of stomping and shouting.”

“You’re not exactly Prince Charming yourself,” Wade said, offended.

Cable snorted. “Anyway, you’re welcome. And _don’t_ ask me for anything else.”

Cable hung up before Wade could protest that point further. Who had two thumbs and didn’t ask Nathan Summers for shit? _This guy._

Still, though, the outcome was good. Peter had stopped pulling off his shirt mid-call. Now that it was over, his hands fell to his side. Wade liked him like this—half corporate drone, Peter Parker. Half friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

“Cable hates me,” Peter said with certainty. He’d overheard, with that spiffy super hearing of his. Not that Wade had stepped away from Peter to take the damn call. Even a normal person could have probably leaned in and eavesdropped.

“No, Cable hates _me_ ,” Wade corrected. “You, he tolerates.”

But Cable’s opinion of Peter was much more well defined than that, he was afraid. The grumpy old bear rationed out only three nice things to say about people in a year, and he’d spent two of those on Peter already this year. _Two._

Distressed at the thought, Wade looked away. Then, distracted, he said, “Are those tacos from the restaurant you hate?”

Peter followed his gaze to the innocuous bags sitting on Wade’s kitchen counter. One of the most delightful things about eating at the restaurants in Queens and Manhattan was undercovering more of Peter’s work history. Peter worked at many of them in his youth. Rare did they come by a hole in the wall restaurant that didn’t provoke Strong Feelings in his Spider-Bae. Mostly about cleanliness standards and wages, but, hey, Wade was entertained.

Peter looked back at him, embarrassed. “I was trying to woo you back into liking me,” Peter admitted. He was blushing.

Wade fought hard not to swoon. “I appreciate the gesture, sweetness, but there’s no need to woo!” He pulled Peter’s tie free, then whipped it around Peter’s waist to drag Peter close. “I’m in it for the long haul.”

“Okay.” Peter was trying not to smile. 

Wade beamed down at him, deliriously happy. It occurred to him that it had been a very, very long time since he’d been in such close proximity with his darling. He dropped his head a little, breathing over Peter’s mouth. “Can I-”

Wade didn’t finish the question. Peter was already kissing him, wrapping his long arms around Wade’s shoulders. It was a gentle gesture. A kind one. Relieved beyond measure, Wade dropped the tie. He had been so close to fucking everything up tonight. So goddamn close, he suddenly felt a deep hunger. He wanted to touch Peter. To take his gloves off and run his hands through his hair. To push the kiss deeper, filthier. To slowly strip the two layers of clothes from his guy’s body. To get some kind of physical affirmation of their totally still mutual lovin’.

Wade’s vision swam instead, and his grip on Peter loosened. Sensing this, Peter mirrored it, backing up just enough to ask if he was alright.

And that small window of space was just enough wiggle room for Wade to almost slam his face on the floor.

“Wade!”

Wade was still fucking exhausted, who knew? Adrenaline had kept him up on his feet this entire time, and, when that failed, Peter’s lovely, lovely reflexes stopped Wade from trying out a DIY facial reconstruction. Maybe Peter should have let him try. Look at what it did for Squidward!

Ugh, stupid body with its stupid fatigue. Wade didn’t want to go to bed just yet. Not now. He and Peter bickered over it briefly before compromising with the couch and some sleep clothes. Fortunately, Peter both wanted to stay and was up for cuddles, which was a very, very good sign.

The night wound down from there. They both changed out of their suits. They shared Wade’s tacos and turned on the television. In all of the time they had been dating, they had almost exhausted all streaming options for true crime shows. It was one of the few areas where their interests collided. In fact, the show they were watching now covered child serial killers. Peter found it interesting because he was a scientist at heart, and he ate up all of the neurological and psychological explanations. Wade found them interesting because the stories were familiar. He shared similar upbringings and formative experiences with these tiny psychos, and he couldn’t figure out why he was the one to develop a moral code, and not them. It usually provoked a lot of interesting conversation.

But not tonight. Distracted and out of it, neither of them noticed they had already watched an episode until they were halfway through it. In lieu of changing it, they started talking instead.

“The Four is breaking up?” Wade asked, drowsy. He was comfy as fuck and halfway to snoozeville. He was splayed out against the arm of his expensive couch, one foot on it and one off. In his arms, he had Peter, his back to Wade’s chest. Peter was lying length-wise across the couch, and he was not about to move anytime soon. A blanket cocooned them, and the lights were dimmed. He could definitely sleep like this. No problem.

Peter kept playing with Wade’s hand. “Ben says they’re worried that they might become a bigger target with the baby. Johnny thinks it’s because they’re redundant, and he’s too busy feeling hurt over it to hear what they’re saying.”

Wade felt a little bad for Johnny. He too, ran afoul of hurt feelings trumping rational thought. “Well, Johnny isn’t thinking. That’s all.” Even if the group disbanded, those four superheroes were going to play a major role in Wade’s plans to backup Spider-Man. Four, assuming Reed Richards was going to ever pull his head out of the diaper bag. Maybe when lil Frankie was up and talking.

“Are we?”

Wade missed the thread of the conversation. “Are we what?”

“Are we becoming redundant?” Peter asked. That broke through Wade’s sleepiness like an ice bath. Rallying other superheroes to do more to protect their own neighborhood was about making Spidey feel supported—not to make him feel useless!

As Wade panicked, Peter continued on, frowning thoughtfully. “Because… I might not mind it so much. I like my work, and Harry’s been threatening to send me back to school. But Spider-Man is such a huge part of my identity, I just… I guess I’m afraid of who I’d be without him.” Peter was quiet for a bit. Then he shrugged. “Regardless, if the world didn’t need me anymore, I… think I would be happy.”

“I would still need you,” Wade said protectively. He tightened his arms around Peter’s waist.

Peter laughed. He turned slightly, looking up at Wade. “Would you be able to settle for just Peter Parker?”

There was nothing _just_ about Peter Parker. “Till death do us part,” Wade replied. Then he winced. “Too soon?”

Amazingly, Peter snickered and thwapped him with a pillow. Wade pushed up, letting Peter fall back on the couch. Then he promptly smothered Peter with his weight.

Yeah. They were going to be alright.


	5. Chapter 5

Yawning, Peter rolled over. A moment later, he pushed up reluctantly against the sheets, tired eyes sweeping across the bedroom. Wade was gone already, of course. When they made the move from the couch to the bed last night, he’d warned Peter that he had to go back upstate for an Avenger thing. Peter made a face, grumpy about it regardless.

He sighed. His seduction technique had been as shit as he feared it would be, but the result was something he couldn’t hate. Having Wade wrapped around him for hours had done much more to mend together the cracked edges of his self-esteem and confidence than any self-affirmation exercise. It probably also helped that they were finally on the same page, communication-wise, for the first time in, what…

Three weeks?

And in the other room, his phone was ringing. Incessantly.

Peter let it go for another round before swearing and kicking his feet free from the bed. He got up and went over to the couch, leaning over the arm to pick up his discarded jacket.

He fished out his phone just as it started ringing again. He answered it without checking the display. “What is wrong with you?”

The voice on the other end was exceedingly chipper. “Hi! Hello. _Good morning._ ”

Peter clapped a hand over his face, both annoyed and pleased. He stood up straight, no longer draped over the furniture. “…Good morning, Wade.”

“Ah, yes. _Buenos dias, cariño_ ,” Wade purred. His accent was atrocious, but he dropped it almost immediately. “Also, you made me lose a bet. I thought you would only pick up on the 69th call. Cuz, you know…” Peter could practically hear his eyebrows move up and down.

“Stop making bets with people. You always lose.” Peter looked out the window. The New York skyline was foggy with a tint of orange. There was a bit of frost on the top of some buildings, but the bright glare of the sun made him think it wouldn’t last long.

“When you right, you right,” Wade said easily. “Say, have you gone into the kitchen yet?” He sounded excited.

“No…?” He turned and went to the kitchen, a little worried.

But he had no reason to be. All Wade wanted him to be aware of was the massive pile of pancakes littering the counter spaces. Folded cards ushered him forward with various depictions of welcoming cartoon Deadpools. The last one, pinned to a glass syrup bottle, was in a full-on Marilyn Monroe pose, flashing him a flirty kiss.

Peter chuckled, ducking his head. “…Thanks, Wade.” He took a pancake, folded in half, and started chewing on the corner of it. “How’s your day been?”

Wade gasped. “Wait. Wait wait wait, what are you doing? Are you eating it cold? Where’s your fork? Your plate? _Your Canadian grade maple syrup_?”

Peter paused midchew and looked around, trying to find a camera. He shoved the rest of the pancake into his mouth, and mumbled, “Yummy.”

“You heathen. I’ll have no part in your shenanigans!”

Grinning, Peter said, “Canadian maple syrup isn’t that good. Have you even tried Hungry Jack?”

“…Get out of my apartment,” Wade said flatly, and Peter laughed. He was still laughing when Wade hung up the phone to sulk.

Amused, Peter sat down with a heavy plate of pancakes, typing out a text to his wounded lover. _Seriously, though. Thanks._ Wade responded promptly with a long wall of heart emojis.

Even without him, it was probably one of the nicest mornings Peter’d had in quite some time.

Well fed for once, Peter went in to work. He waved to security and was let in the building. He got in an elevator and went down. Once he was at the right floor, he made a beeline for the special projects lab that his review committee had claimed for the taking.

Gwen Stacy was already there, surrounded by a wall of empty paper cups. She had both hands propping up her head, and her gaze was directly downward, fixed on a tablet. Her blond hair was coming loose from her bun, likely from her own absent-minded ministrations. She didn’t look up when he came in, not even when the changing air pressure from the automatic door knocked over some of the cups.

Peter grabbed the one closest to her gently and looked at it (still a little warm, clearly decaf, half full with a smidge of cream), and topped it up. He brought it back to her and set it at her elbow. She didn’t seem to notice.

It didn’t put him off. Where Peter was usually hyper chatty when he was in the zone, Gwen went super quiet, her focus lasering in on the topic at hand.

And the topic at hand today was Day 0 of yet another Oscorp-sponsored apocalypse. It deserved 110% of her attention.

Peter took his own tablet and got down to reviewing the data from the next project of concern. Sure, the committee regularly reviewed these things too, but Harry had him and Gwen sifting through the bulk of it. While the committee was there to weigh in on borderline suspicious projects, Harry had authorized Peter and Gwen to immediately kill any project that was obviously intended to have a body count. The committee was aware of this, but it still made Peter uncomfortable, mostly because the company at large didn’t know the amount of control Harry had given just two people.

All of these projects belonged to Oscorp, for better or for worse. As dangerous as some of these projects were, they stood to make Oscorp very, very rich if they found the right buyer. And here Peter was, a relatively low-level employee, wielding a massive red delete button.

If they caught even a whiff of Harry’s orders, the board would dropkick their interim CEO out of his high-rise apartment and celebrate his untimely demise with a parade on the streets. They already hated his guts, given Harry had killed all of their defense projects. But Harry kept an unusually hard line on this. He wanted to keep any dangerous project of his father’s out of the hands of people who would use it for evil.

Peter knew it had to be done, but he always felt a little guilty destroying the data. He didn’t care so much about making rich people richer, but he felt there should be _some_ record of what they were doing, if only as evidence that something horrible had once existed on Oscorp hard drives. That evil was once there.

But in the end, Harry was right. The longer these projects existed, the more likely it was that someone else would use them to their fullest potential. The only alternative was to purge the projects, and to purge them so well that they could never be recreated.

Peter just wished he could argue ethics with Matt a bit to feel a little more settled about this, but Matt hadn’t shown up to the last three committee meetings. All he had nowadays was his own gut feeling, and that feeling almost always had him pressing the delete button.

A few hours later, Gwen finally came up for air. She lifted her head, squinting at him. “…Already nine, is it?” she asked slowly. Then, after a beat, her mouth spread into a smile. “Good morning.”

“Good afternoon,” Peter corrected. He had his feet up on the table, and he was spinning a pen in his hand. “It’s almost 1:30.”

“Oh,” she said. She looked down at her tablet again, frowning. She looked troubled.

“What did you find this time?” Peter asked.

Gwen shook her head, rubbing at her blue eyes with one hand. “Someone figured out how to make red blood cells explode by adding something to the drinking water. Extrinsic hemolytic anemia.” Peter stopped spinning his pen. “ _Why_. Our work should be on how to treat and cure hemolytic anemia, not how to cause it.” Irritably, she tossed the tablet to the table, leaning back in her chair. “You know, Peter, if Harry wasn’t the CEO right now, I would have quit months ago.”

“It’s been a couple of months since such a bad one came up,” Peter pointed out. Most of the projects they brought to the full committee nowadays were also passing through the scrutiny of the whole group. It had taken a while, but, as a business, Oscorp was finally starting to pull away from the dark legacy the Green Goblin had left behind.

But Gwen didn’t seem convinced, staring off into the distance. “I feel like I’m just… waiting. You know? Waiting for the next bad thing to come around the corner.” After a beat, she looked directly at Peter, smiling ruefully. “And if I’m this paranoid, you must be on pins and needles 24/7. I’m sorry. You’re right, things are getting better.” She sat up, tilting her head at him thoughtfully. She folded her hands together. “Though endless optimism isn’t usually your selling point, Debbie Downer. What gives?”

Peter couldn’t help his smile, as embarrassed as it was. “I had a pretty good morning.” He started spinning his pen again.

“Oh?” Gwen looked interested. “How so?”

“…I had a pretty good night,” he admitted. “And that’s all I’m gonna say.”

Gwen’s growing smirk turned full Cheshire in an instant. “I see. I see. That’s a very good reason to be in a good mood.” She propped up her chin on her hands, her eyes creasing at the edges. “I’d tell you to hang on to that, but there’s little chance Wade isn’t already hanging on to you for dear life.”

Peter was pleased at this assessment, even if it was a jab at Wade’s expense. But he couldn’t help but wonder how he would have reacted to the same words just yesterday. Her warm words would have felt like glass in an open wound, but today, he could accept them as a truth. What a difference a day made.

“Go have lunch, Peter,” Gwen said. She freed one hand, shoving at his legs lightly. “I promised the team we’d reconvene then. Apparently, there's a logistic issue with our real work that only the great Peter Parker can solve.”

“Doubt it,” Peter said flippantly, standing, but the comment made him feel appreciated. It had taken many months for Gwen’s team of researchers to take him seriously, to make them see him as more than a problem colleague shoved diagonally away from his last disaster. His lack of equal education hampered his attempts regularly, but some of them were starting to see his knack of “thinking outside of the box” as a good thing.

Gwen turned her attention back to her tablet. “Remember, Peter, your lunch break is an hour. Take longer if you need it. I don’t want to see you gulping down a box of donuts in the break room.”

About to do just that, Peter made a face. He patted his pockets twice, too embarrassed to admit to Gwen that he’d forgotten his wallet. But, conscientiously, he went to the elevator. He took it back up to the street level so Gwen’s contacts in security wouldn’t rat him out for his bad behavior.

But he really was hungry now. He dug through his phone for options. Sure, he knew there were apps that allowed you to magically wave your phone and pay for things, but he’d never set one up before. Besides, he might have had a good paying job nowadays, but he rarely had extra cash in his checking account. He didn’t have a savings account or anything. It just went straight into an account paying for his aunt’s cancer treatment.

And if she had any clue how strapped for cash all of this made Peter, she’d rip him a new one. And Ben would help. Wade also. Actually, Peter knew of very few people in his life who would be okay with this scenario. Oopsie. Whatever. He just had to find an alternative for now—and plan better next time! He dove into his email for ideas.

He’d just found a coupon for a free bagel when he ran into two women just outside of the Oscorp security checkpoint.

“Peter!” one of them said, clearly pleased to see him.

Peter froze like a statue. He’d run into none other than Sue Storm.

The other woman—red hair, frowning, and about the same age as Sue—wasn’t as pleased to make Peter’s acquaintance. “You know him?” The way she looked at Peter told him she was well aware of who he was as well as his executive assistant phase.

Catching onto her mistake, Sue swooped into the rescue. “Yes. Peter’s an old student of mine,” she said quickly. She turned to her friend. “Thanks for lunch! It was great to catch up with you. Call you later?”

At this sudden dismissal, Peter’s colleague nodded awkwardly. They shared a hug, and she went deeper into the building, lining up for security. She paused and looked over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

_Crap._ He’d faced Scorpion last week with a flippant pun and a rude dig about his newest suit design. Against this woman he didn’t even know, his knees were jelly and his heart was racing. He was sweating, and he didn’t even know what his face looked like to make Sue so concerned.

Sue elbowed him gently. “Hey, want to take a walk?”

Peter nodded woodenly, feeling as if someone had walked over his grave.

He followed her lead, and they took off, walking out of the building. Winter wind met them enthusiastically, cutting through Peter’s clothes. Sue shivered visibly, tightening her coat around her. As Peter had predicted, the sun had melted any frost from the colder night hours. It had yet to snow, but daytime temperatures this week rarely rose above the low forties.

Still, they walked, keeping pace with each other as they maneuvered around the other pedestrians of New York City. 

Sue didn’t break the silence for another ten minutes. “Me and my big mouth,” she said ruefully, finally.

A few blocks worth of brisk, city air had shown Peter the humor of the situation. Even if he was still a little shaky. “So, teach, where am I supposed to know you from? Elementary school?”

“Smart ass,” Sue retorted. She smiled brightly. “College! Taught some courses here and there. Still do, actually.” They came to another crosswalk, and she faced him, grinning now. “Come on, Pete!” she teased. “Occam’s Razor, right? Worse comes to worst, she’ll just think I’m cheating on my husband.”

He hadn’t thought of that. “On _Mr. Fantastic_?” Peter said, flabbergasted. “Unlikely!” He’d almost prefer his colleague put two and two together and figured out he was Spider-Man!

Sue laughed loudly, covering her mouth as an afterthought. When they got the signal to move forward, she looped her arm through his, squeezing him lightly. He didn’t mind. She was warm. They passed another handful of storefronts in peace.

“Still, that was stupid of me,” she said quietly. “I know how tightly you guard that information. I saw the look on your face. I really shouldn’t have put you through that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He patted her gloved hand, hooked into his elbow. “But if you do that to me again, please note that I usually get through my panic attacks with a paper bag.”

Sue shot him a wry, conspiring smile. They walked a little longer. Then she said, “I usually inhale lavender and imagine I’m in space.”

Peter felt his heartbeat in his ears, a physical self-consciousness rushing over his body and taking his heart for a joy ride. But she’d met his honesty with her own, which helped. “Funny, space would freak out most people.”

“I’m not most people.” Sue looked up at the sky. “Space is space. It’s knowable, understandable. Fascinating. Measurable. And…” She huffed out a sigh, bringing her gaze back down. “Space isn’t a small child.”

They passed another storefront. Slowly, carefully, Peter said, “You love Franklin.”

“So much,” Sue gushed in a rush, her voice tight. “I just- I thought _Reed_ would be the hands-off one. The logical one. The calm one. He was building a small army of robots to basically take over any parenting task—you remember that, right?” Peter did. He also remembered Reed almost getting choked out by one. “But now we have Franklin, and Reed is not calm. He’s freaking out too. But somebody needs to be the stable one, so I’m it.” She frowned, clutching Peter’s arm a little tighter. “But, honestly, Peter, all I can think of at night is… what if he inherited our powers? Or what if the cosmic rays we were hit with doesn’t give him powers like ours, but rather some kind of illness or super cancer? What if he’s targeted by our enemies? What if someone takes him from us? What if he’s hurt?” Her face screwed up. “What if, what if, what if-”

Sue’s concerns sounded all too familiar. But where his own fears were a chaotic, jumbled mix with no start and no end, Peter saw a clear light at the end of the tunnel for Sue.

“If any of those things were to happen,” Peter said, “then what better family to be born in than yours?”

Sue’s mouth closed. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just blinking. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” she said quietly. Then she smiled, resting her head against Peter’s shoulder. “I wish we met you earlier. The Fantastic Five has a nice ring to it.”

Peter ducked his head quickly, at a loss for words. He always felt especially close to the First Family of Heroes, but to have that regard reflected back at him was… a lot to take in.

His stomach chose that moment to growl. He clapped his hand over his stomach, blushing. “I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be on my lunch break.”

They stopped and she released him, highly amused. “Well, don’t let me keep you!”

Peter didn’t go immediately. Instead, he ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “…forgot my wallet.” It was still mortifying to admit, but Sue was a biologist. It was easier to tell her, somehow. Without a word, she tucked forty bucks in Peter’s hand, making him feel like a brat. “I’ll pay you back,” he promised.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said easily, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “There’s a new coffee shop at the corner of 3rd Ave and 41st Street. You’re almost there. You should go!” She made a square motion with her hands. “They have these great little lunch combos. A couple of those will probably tide you over to 5:00.” She put her hands on her hips. “Oh, and speaking of which, remind me to tell you later, but I’ve been working on a high caloric meal replacement for you. And, well, Captain American and Mr. Barnes as well. I wouldn’t dare give it to you now. It tastes like the inside of an ashtray. But I’ll need guinea pigs soon.”

Sue’s project temporarily banished all feelings of guilt from his mind. He thought of Miles and his perpetual guilt of emptying the fridge. Peter’s only advice up to this point was to eat MREs and protein bars, advice he’d pointedly ignored taking himself. “Wow! I know a lot of people who would benefit from that,” Peter said excitedly.

“Of course you do,” Sue said warmly. “You’ve always been… well networked.” What a kind way of phrasing the rigid checks and balances of his life. Peter found himself rubbing the back of his neck again, embarrassed for entirely different reasons.

They said their goodbyes and parted.

By himself again, Peter slowly made his way down to 3rd Avenue, rubbing his thumb over the corner of the bills in his pocket thoughtfully.

He’d been lucky to gain so many good friends over the years. Sue was one of them. Despite his freak-out near Oscorp—and yeah, she was totally right about Occam’s Razor applying there—she’d so easily surrendered some cash so he could eat. And he couldn’t even be normal with her in public. He couldn’t even say hi to her in the presence of a civilian without his brain merrily skipping down the road to the Worst Possible Consequences—and _she_ had apologized to _him_!

Peter didn’t want to be that person. He didn’t want to be the person who ignored his friends in public. He didn’t want to be constantly hypervigilant for any hint that would give up his secret identity. He didn’t want to see danger in even the most mundane of people who probably weren’t paying that close attention to him anyway.

And, look, he knew it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together and come up with Peter Parker=Spider-Man. He’d made a lot of public mistakes, some more happy than others, and Wade was one of them. Hell, he was just as guilty as Wade for flirting with him both in and out of the suit.

But something about throwing a legal document in the ring shone a spotlight on his piss poor attempt to keep his identity under wraps. 

Gwen was right. He was on pins and needles 24/7, but not for what she thought. He was more confident about the combined efforts of NYC’s superheroes than he’d ever been. No plot of the Green Goblin would get very fair under their watch.

But what he was fearful of were the disastrous consequences of being outed. All it took was someone noticing one thread of suspicious circumstance surrounding Peter and Spider-Man. One tiny tug and it would all unravel.

_And what would happen then?_

Peter stopped mid-crosswalk. A taxi beeped at him. Startled, he waved at the driver and hurried the rest of the way, chewing over that one thought.

Well… he wouldn’t lose his job. That was for sure. Gwen and Harry already knew. Some people wouldn’t like it, but the board would probably spin it to their advantage. If it annoyed Peter too much, he could always jump ship to Stark Industries. Pepper Potts had been trying to poach him for months already. 

And what about his personal relationships? They probably wouldn’t change. May, Ben, Wade, and his friends already knew. Yuri’d probably drag him, digging up old citations just to mess with him. But she ultimately wouldn’t care. His landlord would probably respond a bit quicker to maintenance requests. Maybe.

Heart pounding, Peter started walking a little bit faster.

So, his enemies might take notice, but to what outcome? It wasn’t like Peter hadn’t been targeted by them before. Getting sniped from a rooftop wasn’t a radically different experience out of the suit, after all.

And what about the people around him? It wasn’t like the general public had been all that shielded before. Look at last year and the Green Goblin. Norman didn’t give a crap about all the people affected by Vitanova. No, he’d planned on it, and he’d planned on dealing all that damage with the assumption that Spider-Man was out of the ring. Nothing about his identity would change the collateral damage. Probably.

And what about his loved ones? Peter’s greatest fear as a superhero was bringing criminals right to his aunt and uncle’s front door. But nowadays, Peter was pretty insulated with superheroes. Most of his closest friends had superpowers, guns, or both. Those who didn’t have any of these were well known by those who did—and, after last year, Peter made certain all of them had at least one Avenger on speed dial.

Now, anyone who messed with his aunt and uncle would have to deal with anywhere from 10 to 16 different superheroes. Peter could literally go on the local daily news, right here, right now, and out himself to the entire world. And his fastest, most blood thirsty mortal enemy seeking revenge would be met by a full suited Iron Man drinking tea with his aunt and uncle. Peter wouldn’t be alone in this.

The thought hit him so hard, he was breathless for a moment. His eyes stung, and a weight was suddenly lifted from his shoulders. 

He needed to talk to Wade. He needed to talk to Ben and May and Steve. Maybe Reed and Matt too.

God, what was he thinking? Was he really going to out himself? After all this time? He had to sleep on this decision. Weigh the pros and cons. Gather some feedback. First things first, though—the coffee shop was right in front of him. He needed to eat if he was going to get through the rest of his day.

It was already 1:45.

-

In an upstate New York compound, Wade was typing up his debrief report over the tussle with the 3 Century Kings. He was lying on his back in one of the rec rooms and eating junk food. He had a holographic screen and keyboard precariously cast over his thighs and junk, and he typed away with a one fingered vengeance.

Natasha was noticeably absent, even to the mandatory training session that morning. Clint had called her MIA status out to the rest of the group, but otherwise nothing else was said. Was she ditching him to handle the full weight of the report on his broad, masculine shoulders, or did she already turn in her own like a goody-two shoe teacher’s pet? The world may never know.

Actually, now that he was thinking about it, Steve’s lack of reaction to her absence probably meant she was now on her deep undercover mission fighting Nazis or whatever the hell else she did these days. Of course, this also meant she had perfectly timed their descent on the 3 Century Kings to leave him pants down, red handed, and in full possession of all the consequences. As much as that pissed Wade off, he also had the urge to salute her.

Well done, sis. Well done.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, Wade submitted the report, then fired a middle finger to the air. With class and poise, FRIDAY chose to ignore the gesture, merely thanking him for his timely submission.

Wade was mockingly repeating her words to the air when Steve Rogers entered the room. With a yelp, Wade sat up, breaking the interface. He hopped to his feet in something roughly approaching standing at attention, trying not to let it show too much on his half-exposed face that he’d spent the last hour calling each and every Avenger ruder and ruder names. 

“What was that, Mr. Wilson?” FRIDAY asked innocently. “I’m afraid I didn’t compute.”

“Er, no. It’s fine.” Cheeto crumbs fell from where they bunched in the neckline of his suit. Embarrassed, Wade flapped a hand in the general direction of his torso. Steve watched each offending piece of food hit the ground with a bemused expression.

“On the contrary, Mr. Wilson, I have your response recorded. _All of it._ Shall I play it back for you and try again?”

Wade laughed uneasily. Then he sharply shook his fist at the ceiling. “Zip your digital lips, woman!”

Steve was trying not to smile. “FRIDAY, cut him some slack.”

“Of course, Captain,” she said. Then she went quiet.

“Tony’s more like this one, I feel,” Steve offered in the awkward silence. He frowned. “JARVIS was… different.”

Steve was clearly in that awkward place of mourning the loss of an AI who hadn’t so much been lost but rather reborn and reshaped into another teammate. Wade tended to see it more in Stark than anyone else, for obvious reasons. Stark would forget himself around Vision, abruptly remember it mid-conversation, then disappear in his workshop for several days. When he came out, he was always overly chipper, aggressively steering all conversation away from his momentary lapse.

Steve shook himself out of his thoughts. “Anyway, it’s good you’re still here. I wanted to talk to you.”

Wade wanted to say something similar, but a part of him was still kicking and screaming at the idea of leaving Peter so early in the morning. Of course, Wade knew there were repercussions for going rogue (and even embraced the accountability from the team), but, honestly, if Black Widow was okay with it, Wade really felt the Avengers as a whole should have just given him a pass. Or scheduled the training on a different day.

Seeing what was in Steve’s hands, Wade jump-kicked that fussy, irritable part of him away. “I see! A man of culture.” He stepped forward automatically, gesturing at it. “ _How to Woo A Spider in 365 Days_ , huh? It looks, uh, well read.” Steve considered the stack of papers in his hand. There were post-it notes sticking out of it. “Gotta say, didn’t expect anyone to take the notes from that NeX-Force meeting that seriously. Negasonic Teenage Meaniehead uses it as a doorstop. I tripped over it yesterday.” Wade rubbed his hands together nervously. “So, uh. Any constructive criticism? Keep in mind that my heart is fragile. I can, and will, cry on command.”

Steve’s eyes widened. “I… don’t…” At a loss for words, he huffed out a quiet laugh. “I just think I understand you a little bit better now.”

That little head duck plus a smile was a devasting fucking move, and Wade found himself creeping a little closer. Steve could pull Kano’s iconic heart rip finisher on Wade, and Wade wouldn’t blame him for it.

“Don’t diagnose me yet. I’m not ready for the commitment of a straitjacket.”

“But you are ready for a commitment to a person,” Steve said. It sounded like a question, even though it really wasn’t. Wade didn’t say anything. If this was a pop quiz, he didn’t want to fuck it up.

Steve watched him a little longer, coming to his own conclusions. “You’re serious about him. _Really_ serious about him.”

Wade flattened his hand over his chest. “Serious as a heart attack.” 

“Right,” Steve said, looking down at the papers. Then he looked up, a deep frown indenting the skin between his eyebrows. “Look. I feel obligated to give you some… friendly advice.”

Wade crossed his arms over his chest, squinting at Steve suspiciously. “Friendly as in you’re my friend or friendly as in friendly fire?”

Steve didn’t directly answer. “I am impressed, as always, by your tactical mind. You know this.” He shook the papers. “But this… worries me. You’ve always been great at making a decision, for better or worse. You’re never afraid, no matter what’s on the line. But this? And that meeting you had with everyone? All I’m seeing from you is a whole lot of fear.”

“That’s not fair,” Wade said, stung.

“Isn’t it?” Steve challenged. “You called me out, what, three missions ago? What did you say?” Wade shrugged. “You said if we spent any more time on the quinjet arguing about what ifs, AIM was going to procreate-”

That sparked a recollection.

“-and birth a whole army of baby minions. I remember.” Wade might have been thinking about thinking about the little dudes from _Despicable Me_ when he said that. What? They wore yellow, they were minions, they probably had a Kevin, statistically speaking—it tracked!

Steve lifted the papers. “Wade, this is 118 pages of what ifs.”

Wade wanted to fight that. He wanted to point to where there were real action steps mixed in with the jokes and tangential statements. He wanted to argue that this was more important than a clean and sweep mission of an AIM base. This was Peter’s entire life they were talking about here.

But there was also a reason why it was 365 days, not a shorter period, and why his current draft was sitting at 500 days instead.

A lot of fucking what ifs. 

Instead of fighting, Wade just dropped his head.

Steve clapped a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Take it from someone who lost his chance. Just do it.”

Okay, _calm down_ , Nike.

“You said you don’t care about rejection. Great. You said the end goal of this isn’t really marriage. Even better. You said all of this is to make sure Spider-Man isn’t the only guy protecting his neighborhood. Fantastic. I’m all for it.” Steve paused, tilting his head. “You said Peter doesn’t know anything about this yet? Big mistake.”

Steve didn’t get it. Wade couldn’t just drop this little experiment on his Spider-Bae’s anxious head. Peter already had existing trust issues with their allies and friends. He didn’t need empty promises. He needed results.

And, more than that, he needed to explain why he, of all people, dropped to a knee and proposed unromantically in the middle of an average patrol night. He didn’t have the words for it yet, only that it had to do with big, love-shaped things he was having a hard time communicating—and marriage, in the moment, had seemed like a very convenient shortcut.

The botched proposal itself was proof that impulse was not working in Wade’s favor for this one.

But maybe Steve had a point.

“It’s not perfect,” Wade muttered grudgingly.

“But it’s something,” Steve said. “Be upfront about what you’re doing. Why you’re doing it. Why you think it’s important. Hell, why _we_ think it’s important. Just… don’t wait for perfection.”

Wade sighed, acknowledging this, and Steve clapped his shoulder two more times, smiling tightly.

Steve was right. Wade was afraid. So freaking afraid.

See, when Wade was rejected, he thought he knew why Peter said no. Peter had practically spelled it out for him in the midst of a panic attack Wade himself had caused. But, you know, an itty-bitty part of Wade was worried that Peter’s rejection of him had a broader basis, and that the threat of legally binding agreements shrouded in ceremony and fanfare had just highlighted all of the reasons why Peter should dump Wade already.

And the longer Wade avoided talking to him about things, the longer he got to keep Peter. So like Schrodinger’s long-term relationship. Right?

But what a difference a day made. Last night had taken all of those fears and tossed them out on their ears.

Peter hadn’t revealed his dislike of Wade. In fact, he’d been upset at the thought that Wade thought Peter didn’t love him at all.

Peter wasn’t disengaging from the relationship like a man disengaging from a wad of gum on his favorite shoe. No, he’d tried to woo him last night with romantic gestures and tacos. 

And Peter wasn’t even revolted at the idea that they might get hitched! Wade had basically said he was going to propose again at some point, and Peter hadn’t flinched away from him at all.

Wade didn’t need perfect. And neither did Peter. Just honesty.

Wade could deliver that.

Static burst out of nowhere, slightly piercing and totally annoying. Was this what most people experienced when Wade started talking? Ha! _Self-burn_. Wincing, Steve and Wade looked up to the ceiling.

A moment later, Clint’s voice came through the speaker. “Code WWW3.” His voice was tight. “I repeat, Code WWW3. Note the W’s, people.”

“Uh…” Steve said eloquently. The message didn’t stop, merely looping back to the start. Clint must have recorded it before running off.

“I knew it,” Wade whispered in awe. “I fucking _knew_ it. Everyone laughed at me, but who’s laughing now!” He put his hands on his hips, laughing darkly.

Next to him, Steve’s stance shifted slightly into something more defensive. “What are you talking about?” he said cautiously.

Wade blinked at him. He rubbed the back of his neck. “WWW? World Wide Web? You were a popsicle at the time, so I guess this reference goes over your head. But this is clearly Y2K!” Wade shook his fist at the ceiling. “You’re next, FRIDAY!” Then he flinched. “Also Vision. Oops. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.” He cringed. “Ew, do not like this feeling in real life. Then again, never did like ending of Mass Effect 3 either-”

“Wade, this isn’t Y2K,” Steve said, exasperated. He dropped his guard. “What else has three W’s?”

“I’m mourning the loss of our brobot, give me a minute!” Wade barked. Then, as it occurred to him, he said, “Wait, why don’t I know this protocol? Stop, don’t tell me, I wanna figure it out.” Wade cupped his chin thoughtfully. “Come on, big brain moment… World Wide War? World Wide _Wrestling_. What Women Want. World Weather Watch? Wild Wild West?” Wade gasped. “OMG, is this a Cowboy AU? I can’t wait to tell Peter, ‘I can’t quit y-’”

Just as Wade’s mouth closed around the last word of the quote from that Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger masterpiece, the door next to Wade opened, revealing a storming Winter Soldier.

Ha, storming.

Bucky’s eyes widened, and that was the only warning Wade had.

A second later, Wade was buried three inches in a wall with a hard forearm digging into his throat. He gagged expressively. On one hand, terribly flattered—and honored—to be flattened by a living piece of history.

On the other hand, _what the fuck_.

Managing to leverage Bucky’s arm just far enough away from his throat to breathe, Wade wheezed, “Oof, guys, I know RiRi says whips and chains excite me, but I gotta tell you. Choking kind of sucks.” Bucky stopped leaning into his arm as hard. Wade waved a shaky thumbs up at his ally (?) and grinned toothily. “Thanks, Bucky Bear.”

“Buck, the code was a mistake,” Steve said quietly. He inserted himself into the mess, a hand on Bucky’s chest, ready to push him off. “I’ve been with him this whole time.”

Wade Winston Wilson. That was also a phrase with 3 W’s, Wade realized. Belatedly.

Bucky didn’t budge. “…You haven’t heard,” he said finally, pale eyes fixed on Wade.

“Haven’t heard what, Buck?” Steve asked, a hard note in his voice.

Bucky spared his friend the quickest glance before looking back at Wade. There was something about that gaze that made Wade feel itchy. Like he needed to check his fly or wipe his face free of drool. Like he needed to dump the evidence before he got caught doing something naughty. Or like he needed to run far, far away from here before Bucky said another word.

Bucky slowly took his arm off of Wade’s neck. “I’m sorry, kid. You shouldn’t have to hear it from me.” That slightly sour, resigned look on his face told Wade that Bucky was going to tell him anyway. “But Peter’s dead.”


	6. Chapter 6

Two days ago, a John Doe was found in Hell’s Kitchen. He’d had a badge and a matching driver’s license on him. But the responding officers weren’t sure, so they called Yuri in to identify the corpse.

And so she did. Someone killed Ryan Ramirez on his way home.

Seeing a fellow cop go down like that was always rough. It hurt worse because she knew him, she trusted him, she had just talked to him. But cops getting killed was an unfortunate reality of their career. They weren’t bakers or artists or teachers. They were police officers, and sometimes being a cop meant pissing off people who didn’t have any morals. Sometimes, it meant trading your life for a civilian’s. Sometimes, it meant some people spat at you and others opened fire.

And sometimes, it meant you became the statistic you were trying to beat.

So Yuri boxed away the grief and shoved it aside to deal with on another day. She put all of her effort and focus into finding the killer. They had leads almost immediately. Ramirez, while a good cop, made more than his fair share of enemies. They could start there. Thanks to a quick thinking cop fresh from the academy, they even knew how to narrow down further. The closest store had a potato of a security camera. It didn’t catch the murder, but it did catch someone very large approaching, then running away from the scene.

Yuri barricaded the conference room and spread out Ramirez’s case load over the surface. Henderson and Stanley, familiar with the cases where Yuri was not, helped her sort through them. By 2am, they had a stack of potential cases that represented at least 20 large males with violent rap sheets, all of whom would love to take a swing at the man who put them behind bars. The rest of her officers did a stand up job under such fucked up circumstances, continuing with their duties or following up with other leads as appropriate. Yuri went home, exhausted and upset, but deeply appreciative of the men and women she served with.

The next morning met her with a stiff neck and her phone ringing off the hook. Stanley’s ex-wife had been calling her. When Yuri picked up, it took some time to get her to stop shrieking so she could figure out what was going on.

When Stanley had failed to swing by her house to take their daughter to school, the former Mrs. Johannsson drove over to rip him a new one. But when she let herself in the oddly unlocked front door, she didn’t find her ex-husband, slacking off from his parental duties as she expected. No, she found a badly beaten man, impaled with pieces of the wood door he’d been thrown through.

When Yuri got to the scene, Stanley was still hanging there, like a forgotten Christmas wreath. He’d been dead for hours and had probably been jumped the second he got home around three in the morning.

Henderson went ballistic. Yuri privately didn’t blame him. She’d known and respected both of the men, and she would mourn them deeply. But Henderson had worked with the two of them for many years before she became Captain. Stanley and Ramirez were his friends, and he badly wanted to punch back at the murderer who had taken them both.

But when Henderson’s raging around the station started gaining sympathetic ears, Yuri knew she needed to exercise her authority.

So she called him into her office and put him on leave. He was furious. He swore at her, made accusations about her commitment to finding the killer. Or killers. She barked right back at him, calling him out on his behavior. He was out of control and, worse, he was inciting other officers, many of them his juniors, to act out in the same way.

“How are we supposed to have the community’s trust if you’re out there, acting like you’re the judge, jury, and executioner?”

He’d kicked over her trash can then. “Don’t come crying to me when more of our people die,” he’d spat and marched out.

Yuri had let him go. She had enough on her plate with two dead men, and she had people above her and below her demanding explanations and actions. She valued Henderson, but she valued having one less hot head more. Even as she dismissed him, she was grimly aware that she was single handedly setting back the Benefactor case by months—maybe even years.

She had all of their ducks in a row too. Spare cash. Fake identification. Burner cell phones. An internet trail for Henderson’s go-to cover. A list of criminal informants ready to act as references. The okays from their higher ups. She’d even just stocked a safe house for him to use.

And yet all of that needed to take a backseat. Two of her people were dead, and she owed it to their families to find them justice. And Henderson was getting in the way of that. She felt justified, putting him on leave.

She hadn’t been as sure as he was that someone had a vendetta against their precinct. Now, she wished she’d listened a little more to Henderson’s theories.

Earlier today, she got another call about another John Doe. This one had been left on the steps of the Daily Bugle. That initial flash of red and blue scared her more than she’d care to admit, but she’d known as soon as she approached the body that it wasn’t actually Spider-Man himself, and her heart sank for a different reason.

Stanley had come the closest to filling out the suit the way it was intended, even if his version of Spider-Man was four inches too tall. Both Ramirez and Henderson had chicken legs, and there were always noticeable gaps between their skin and the rest of the suit. And since Ramirez and Stanley were both already dead, Yuri didn’t bother pulling off the mask to verify what she already knew.

Henderson was gone too.

Her world spun for a moment, and it hit her how much had happened in less than 60 hours. Her Spidey Cop Corps was gone, her precinct was under siege, and she’d lost her top three detectives. And, to the public who didn’t know any better, she’d just lost them Spider-Man too.

That moment didn’t so much pass as it lingered, shoved deep in the back of her mind.

She made a couple of bad decisions while trying to control the situation. She’d own up to that. The first of them was paying off the EMTs to give her Henderson’s body. Thinking she was trying to preserve Spider-Man’s identity, they were far more amenable than she expected, even guiding her to a secluded spot to make the car switch. Yuri drove away, paranoid that a fellow cop was going to pull her over at any moment.

She took Henderson’s body to the safe house she’d just set up for him. She stuck his body in the unit’s deep freezer, then spent the next hour throwing up. She sat on the bathroom tile floor for a long time after that, cold and shaking. It was only a matter of time before someone reported Henderson as missing. What would happen then? She didn’t know what to do next.

So she went to work.

O’Leary met her in her office, a space he’d evidently taken over in the few hours she’d been MIA. She’d missed quite a few calls, apparently, and he hadn’t been as relieved as the other officers to see her. Instead, he chewed her out for twenty minutes with the door wide open. He called her reckless and stupid, spraying spittle all over the place. As he harped on her work ethic and mismanagement, Yuri took the abuse silently. She wondered if this was what Henderson had experienced in his last hours—grief and a hard headed boss who wouldn’t take you seriously.

She’d almost laughed when O’Leary put her on leave. He even took her gun.

“And you better have your phone on you the whole time,” O’Leary had snarled as she left. “Or next, I’ll have your badge!”

Yuri was numb, and she was probably not paying as much attention as she should have been. After all, what was an angry boss to the reality of having dropped a subordinate in a deep freezer? It was the kind of nightmare she wished she could wake up from, but she knew it was all real. What the hell was she supposed to do next?

She got in her car and stuck her key in the ignition, aware she was just going to go home and be further plagued by indecision.

Except there was a manila envelope on the passenger seat.

She stared at it for a moment, then reached over to grab it. It was flat, but not light, and many things shifted smoothly when she tilted it to one side, then the other. She opened it and a pile of glossy photos spilled out onto her lap.

Stanley’s glassy eyes looked up from the very top of the pile. She flinched, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to get away from this reality. Stanley’s killer left photos in her car to… what? Taunt her? Torment her?

His mistake.

Sucking in a deep breath, she hardened her heart. Grabbing a pair of gloves to avoid fingerprints, she folded them in half and started carefully sifting through the pictures, trying to see if there were any patterns.

She quickly figured out it wasn’t just pictures of her dead men. There were other photos too. Photos of her, specifically.

There was one of her parting ways with Stanley the morning he died. There was one of her walking into work, looking as sleep deprived as she felt. There was one of her and Ramirez outside a coffee shop, shooting the breeze. There was one of her and Spider-Man on the Coast Guard ship only a few weeks early.

Yuri and the mayor. Yuri and a stray cat. Yuri and O’Leary.

Yuri and that failed Bumble date. Yuri and her mother.

Yuri and a good book, taken from just outside her window.

The photo wrinkled under her tightening grip. Henderson had been wrong, in the end. There wasn’t a vendetta against her precinct. There was a vendetta against her specifically. And the perpetrator was right under her nose. It was another _cop_.

Yuri sorted through the photos quickly, her rage rising as she found more and more photos that couldn’t have been taken by anyone else. Hell, the one in her hand right now was taken in the bullpen! The next one was taken right before a press conference regarding a rash of car jackings last year. Only cops had been present. She was sure of it.

Furious, Yuri shoved the rest of the photos in the envelope and peeled out of the parking lot. What were they going to do, arrest her?

She went straight home and parked her car in the underground garages. She tucked the envelope under her arm and marched up to her unit. She didn’t spend much time in her apartment, merely picking up her spare gun and the stash of cash she’d been saving for a vacation. Those were the only things that were important right now, outside of the evidence she was carrying. Once she had them, she immediately went back down to the underground garage, now armed. Then she stopped, holding the elevator door open and staring at her car.

The interior light was on, like she’d left the door open. Something about the emptiness of the garage made the hair on the back of her neck stand straight up. She put her hand on her gun.

Something scraped in the distance, like metal against concrete, and she panicked, slamming her fist against the elevator button panel. It closed, taking the compartment up several floors. She backed up until her back was against the wall. Her heart was racing, and her hand was sore.

Needing to regroup, Yuri went back up to her apartment. She’d swear up and down that someone else had been in that garage with her—and it wasn’t one of her neighbors.

Jittery, she stormed back into her place, closing and locking the door behind her. Tossing the envelope of photos on the table, she flipped off all the lights in her unit, staying away from the windows. Even so, she knew it was a temporary—and likely ineffective—measure. The murderer had already shown her that he knew where she lived. Some of the photos looked like they had been taken from one of the units in the apartment building next to hers. She had to assume he was still there.

But there was also whoever the fuck was in the garage, and there was no way she was driving out of here unless she was gone. She could leave on foot, but there was no guarantee of safety there either. Ramirez had been killed on the street in seconds, and Stanley had been killed in the safety of his home. And who knew where Henderson had been murdered? All she had seen was that there was not nearly enough blood on the ground for him to have died on the steps of the Daily Bugle.

She liked to think that her men had merely been caught off guard. But the man they saw on the security camera after Ramirez’s murder was very, very large, and Henderson had been dressed as Spider-Man at the time. So few people would have known he was a fake.

What kind of man—or beast—took a run at Spider-Man and expected to win?

Suddenly, Yuri heard her window creak open from inside her bedroom. She took out her gun and dove for cover behind a wall, her weapon trained on the hallway leading to her bed. She waited, breath held tightly, as a man walked deeper into her apartment on light, silent feet. The stranger was wearing black slacks, a collared shirt, and a long winter coat. Unusual for a B&E. Aiming for center mass, Yuri squinted into the darkness, trying to figure out who this intruder was, unconsciously powerful in a way few men were.

Then she saw the mask. She swore colorfully, switching on the lights.

Spider-Man’s lens constricted in the sudden brightness. “…Jeez,” he said mildly, flattening a hand over them to shield himself.

Yuri wanted to throw her fucking gun at him. “Oh my god, you absolute _asshole_. I almost shot you!” Spider-Man rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Exasperated, Yuri put the safety on and put her gun on the table, coming up from her makeshift shield. “Haven’t you heard calling ahead, you prick?”

“I did, though,” Spider-Man said, watching her approach. “I’ve been trying to find you for hours. _What happened, Yuri?_ ”

Toe to toe with him now, Yuri was stumped for an answer. Where should she begin? She looked him up and down, distracted by those professional clothes paired with that very unprofessional mask. “…You smell like coffee,” she said finally.

“Yuri,” he started, warningly.

Yuri shook her head. No jokes. Not even from her resident jokester. She pinched the bridge of her nose, breathing out slowly.

She’d always liked Spider-Man, even before they started working together. Years ago, she just admired him from afar. She’d wanted to be an acrobat when she grew up, but those dreams were squashed by economic realities. When she came back home from her time in the Army, she’d been stunned by the sight of a man whipping through the skyline—and she’d thought, damn, she’d set the bar too low. A guy like Spidey wasn’t new, not in New York City where you could see everything from walking pieces of history to green rage monsters to literal gods—plural. But there was something about Spider-Man that was so utterly different, she decided. Something about the way he flipped through the air, letting out a whoop of unrestrained, pure joy.

Later, she actually met him, and she found that joy was still there, despite everything. It was in his sense of humor. It was in his belief in the good of other people. And yes, it was in his recklessness too. She’d always considered it her sworn duty to yank him down to Earth.

But could she really drag him into this? A cop was killing other cops, and cops were trained to watch each other’s backs. All of this was going to get ugly, no matter what she did.

“I-”

But Spider-Man lifted a gloved hand—gloved for the winter, not for his suit. “Ssh.” He cocked his head to the side. “Do you have a fire escape? Where is it?”

Yuri wordlessly looked at the window in that very room, just in time to see a shadow moved over her curtains.

They both flattened themselves against the wall, each on either side of the window. Head pounding, Yuri grimly watched the shadow get bigger as someone climbed down from a higher apartment. Rubber shoes made a soft clink with every step. Clink. Clink.

Clink. Clink.

Clink.

The shadow settled at her window. It didn’t move.

It was driving Yuri crazy. She was so close to the intruder, just on the other side of the wall. She could almost hear them breathing. In, out.

Could this be the person who left the photos in her car?

In, out.

Was this the murderer? The curtain that kept them out of view made this person—this danger—a permanent shadow with no discerning features. She longed to throw it open and confront them. But that kind of attitude may have gotten her men killed, and Yuri wasn’t the type to repeat other people’s mistakes.

In, out.

She’d left her fucking gun on the other side of the room. She was emboldened by Spider-Man’s presence, but he was a lifelong pacifist where it mattered. If she wanted a bullet in someone’s head, she had to put it there herself.

In, out.

But she had already had one friendly B&E tonight. What if this was another friend? What if she was seeing danger where there was none? What if she was wrong about everything—up to and including the likelihood of her men being killed by a fellow police officer?

She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what to do. _She didn’t know what to do!_

Across from her, Spider-Man suddenly extended a pinky out, setting it over the curtain and the window. She saw why a moment later when the would-be intruder tried—and failed—to jiggle her window open. It was as good as nailed shut.

Behind the curtain, the stranger sighed, a note of irritation in his voice. He peered into the unit a little longer before going back up the ladder to the other apartment.

Once the shadow was gone, Yuri hurled herself across the room, grabbing her gun. She charged towards the window, only to be caught halfway by Spider-Man.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Getting to the bottom of this,” she snarled back at him. “Let me go.” He did and she continued forward, pausing just by the curtain. She’d planned to rip the window up and chase the fucker into the other unit. Maybe keep pulling the trigger until the screaming in her head died down.

But doubt had seeped in. “…Did anyone follow you? When you broke in.”

“You live in a corner unit, Yuri,” Spider-Man said impatiently. “I came in on the other side of the building. Besides, I know when people are watching me.”

“Must be nice,” Yuri said bitterly, thinking of all of the photos.

“Jesus, Yuri. Who was that?”

“Don’t know.” Thinking quickly, she made a decision. “Come on.”

She grabbed Spider-Man’s arm and dragged him to the door. She paused only long enough to also grab the photos. It would do her no good to lose evidence.

Once in the hallway outside of her apartment, she looked both ways before delivering a sharp kick to the door across from hers. The molding snapped and the door flew open, hitting the wall behind it.

Spidey yelped. “What the hell was that?” he said all in one breath, looking all around them like a school boy about to get caught with porn in his backpack.

“They’re gone for a holiday. Relax,” she said, tugging him into the apartment. She closed the door behind them, then moved a table in front of it. She turned around then, scrutinizing the apartment. It was a twin of her own, just with more… stuff. More furniture, more photos, more knickknacks—just how many freaking mugs did these people need?

Huh. Maybe her last date was right all along. Her apartment did look more like a hotel room than an actual home.

She approached their windows, peering out into the afternoon skyline. The curtains were wide open, and this unit received full benefit of the day’s sun. She squinted, looking closer. There was another building across the way, different than the one she suspected she’d been watched from.

Hopefully, her pursuer wasn’t in the new building too. And if they were, then hopefully there were no snipers.

And if there were snipers, hopefully Spidey’s reflexes were fast enough to save them both.

“Yup, I’m an accessory,” Spider-Man realized out loud. His shoulders slumped. “I’m doomed.”

“You’re alive. That’s better than some right now,” Yuri said harshly. Then she ducked her head. Wow. Maybe she wasn’t doing such a great job compartmentalizing after all. She cleared her throat, turning to face him and ready to debrief. “Sorry. I’ve had a… rough week. So much has gone wrong, and I don’t even know where to start fixing it. So I guess I’ll start with an explanation.” Yuri closed her eyes for a moment, took in a deep breath, then released it. “Three of my detectives are dead.”

“…I’m so sorry,” Spider-Man said with feeling.

Yuri ignored that. “All three of these detectives were not only my top subordinates, they were also the only three involved in our little Spider-Man experiment. That’s why everyone thinks _you’re_ dead right now. It was- Henderson, he-” She stopped.

Henderson had died angry at her for not doing more for their people, and he had died trying to _be_ more—a symbol of justice and safety for the city. In dying, he was now sowing seeds of fear. And Yuri was next.

A thought occurred to her. “Does anyone know you’re alive right now?”

Spider-Man lifted his finger, like he was about to speak. Then he stopped. Embarrassed, he scratched his cheek instead. “Actually, no. I saw what happened on the news and knew it was one of your men, so I kind of… dropped everything to try and find you?” He waved both hands frantically. “Not that I’m totally undependable! Honest! I _meant_ to let everyone know, but I sort of wasted all of my battery on trying to call you. I’ve been basically chasing you from the Daily Bugle to some residential apartments to the station to here, always one or two steps behind you.” Yuri tensed at the reminder of the safe house. Spider-Man didn’t seem to notice, too busy pulling out his cell phone. “Sorry, also didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your, uh, confrontation with the boss man. Eek, what a jerk, right?” Spidey’s lenses widened and his voice brightened. “Hey, do you think our hosts have a charger I can borrow? I sure would like-”

Yuri ripped the phone out of his hand, dropped it on the floor, and smashed it under her heel. She stepped over his head as he dove to ground, trying to grab all of the pieces. “It’s better for everyone involved if they still think you’re dead,” she said firmly over his protests.

Privately, she was shaking. She had so little control over this situation, and what bare threads she’d managed to grasp would be ripped away the second Spider-Man popped his head up in public. Some people may have seen him today—it didn’t matter. There were rumors about another mutant in black and red with very similar powers, and there were no pictures of them. Chances were, most people wouldn’t assume that this bizarrely dressed Spidey was the same one that was supposed to be broken on the steps of the Daily Bugle.

Spider-Man had to stay dead. Or people were going to start to ask for answers she didn’t have yet.

“Uh, have you met my friends? I strongly—respectfully!—disagree.” Making eye contact with him, Yuri ripped the landline out of the wall. Spider-Man gathered all of the little pieces of his phone to his chest and stood. “Sheesh, trust issues much.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Yuri said, laughing darkly. Spider-Man stilled.

“Look,” he said gently. “You’re upset. I’m sorry that-”

“What?” she interrupted, angry all over again. “What are you so sorry about? A young man losing his life? A cop dying while wearing your suit? Or the death of the one person in NYC who could have blown the whole Benefactor case wide open?” Yuri smiled thinly, shaking her head once. “Trust me, tough guy. There’s plenty to be fucking upset about.”

She looked away quickly, her eyes heating up. There it was, the feeling she was trying to suppress. It was unfair and stupid and horrible that three genuinely good people were dead. And all that was left behind was her, and she was so incapable of handling this. There was no way she was going to find justice for them. And there was no way she was going to find justice for Ricky either. And who knew how many more people were going to be victimized?

“The Benefactor,” Spider-Man repeated. He staggered a step closer to her, lens thinning out into slits. “Who’s the Benefactor?”

“We don’t know. He’s been implicated in a lot of crimes in the last couple of months, but nothing sticks and nothing is solid. We thought maybe he had something to do with some prison escapes recently-”

“That explains some familiar faces on the streets,” Spidey muttered. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“We thought there could be corruption involved, and that’s out of your wheelhouse.”

“…That’s fair.”

There was also the fact that politics between the NYPD and Ryker’s could get nasty at times—hence the awkward standoff they were forced to perform while Ryker’s was dealing with a riot. Politics and Spider-Man didn’t mix well. She learned that the hard way the one time Spidey convinced her to be his plus-one for a fundraiser gala with the mayor.

Yuri shook her head. “Anyway, Henderson was tapped to go undercover. He worked for months on this, trying to make the right contacts and find the right way in-”

But Spider-Man interrupted her again. “I haven’t heard a lot about the Benefactor yet. I just started looking into him. But all my sources indicate that the Benefactor has a lot of people in his pockets. Like a ton.” He leaned closer to her, lenses narrowing again. “Are you sure he didn’t already know that the NYPD was planning to send in an undercover officer?”

It took her a moment to process what he’d said. He’d seen a bridging point that she hadn’t, and now that she did, all the pieces began to fall in place.

Honestly, in all of this, she hadn’t expected the Benefactor’s influence. They were cops. They had their own enemies. But it tracked with the evidence they had. The suspicious deaths were all people who were willing to talk about the Benefactor.

Ricky would have talked. Hell, Ricky would have _sung_ for her, had she caught him in time.

So who could have sung the Benefactor a song about her precinct and the case they had opened on the Benefactor? 

The rage hit her so quickly, her vision went white. She turned around and stalked away from Spider-Man, trembling with the urge to punch a wall. It wasn’t just a cop, as she thought, someone who could have identified their addresses easily and stalked Yuri without her knowing.

No. Only someone in her precinct could have known something so specific as an undercover assignment. Who served beside them only to put a target on their backs?

And, even worse, there was nothing she could do about it now. She was on leave. She had no Henderson to go undercover. She had a boss who wouldn’t take her seriously and who had already heavily undermined her to her subordinates. She had a stalker who had already killed her best people. Her enemies were all around her, and she was checkmated in a game of chess she didn’t know she was playing. Her only choice at this juncture was to keep running.

Had Ramirez not been found, Henderson would have gone undercover that day. Would he have been spared then? The only two people who knew about the gambling matches angle were Henderson and Yuri herself.

“…We’ve already lost,” Yuri realized out loud. And it was true. Every plan she had made. Every resource she had gathered. Every contingency she had thwarted. It was all for nothing.

With zero humor, she let out a dry, soft laugh. “I had four people I trusted—only four—and three of them are now dead. This case is finished. The Benefactor… he really is going to get away with this, isn’t he?" And it was only a matter of time before the noose closed around her own neck.

She looked at the photos they’d left for her. They knew where she lived. They knew where her parents lived. They'd followed her every footstep— _for months_. They were circling in on her, mocking her with their surveillance as she tried to assume some false sense of control over this situation.

But Spider-Man didn’t seem as convinced of their defeat. "Does it have to be, though?" He had that annoying, telling lilt to his voice that said he was about to play devil's advocate. “I mean, it seems like you went through a lot of trouble to plan an undercover mission. Who says Henderson is the only one who can see it through?”

It was obvious. Annoyed, Yuri threw the stalking photos at his feet. "They know my face, Spider-Man."

"Yeah," he agreed, looking down at them. He reached behind his head, pulling off his mask. Yuri was met with the resolute gaze of a stranger. "But they don't know mine."

Yuri didn’t respond. Not immediately.

She’d dodged all speculation about Spider-Man’s identity, even the lighthearted hypotheses that happened in the station between officers. But she’d still had some private theories she shared with no one.

The man in front of her was not as young as she’d always feared. Instead, he was roughly the same age as some of her more seasoned officers. Hell, he even looked like Henderson—brown eyes instead of blue. Spider-Man lacked the dimple Henderson had in one cheek, but he had a slightly wider set of shoulders, a slightly taller muscular frame. His hair was almost too wild (she blamed the mask), but it wouldn’t take much to tame it to Henderson’s sleek coif.

It also wouldn’t take much doctoring of Henderson’s fake identification to make it look like the man Spidey was behind his mask.

No. No. She was not-

She was not even _considering_ -

She looked back at him again, torn. There was no way she could put the Benefactor behind bars while she was on the run. But if she could distract the Benefactor into thinking she was a loose end, he might not notice an extra fighter on his payroll at all.

And all Spider-Man needed to do was give them a location of one of the fights that the Benefactor was at so they could catch him red handed. With the Benefactor behind bars to inciting violence and gambling, she would have the room—and possibly even the hard evidence—needed to get justice for Ramirez, Stanley, Henderson, and Ricky once and for all. 

“I- I need to think. Don’t move.” Yuri started pacing. “Don’t even _talk_.” In the corner of her eye, she saw Spider-Man’s mouth close. She tried to think of all the cons and all of the worst-case scenarios, but her mind kept tripping ahead, thinking of all the good this could do.

She gave it another minute, then stopped, sighing. “…This is fucking stupid.”

“But not impossible, right?” Spider-Man seemed stupidly chipper about the whole idea.

“Hey, no talking,” Yuri snapped, then ruined it immediately by asking, “How familiar are you with illegal fighting rings?”

“That depends,” Spider-Man said distractedly, plucking his SIM card out of the mess Yuri had made out of his phone. “What’s the statute of limitations?”

Well, that wasn’t suspicious at all.

-

Yo, Internet. What was the opposite of gaslighting, again? Education? Communication? Affirmation?

Yeah. Wade would like the affirmation to stop now, thanks. He was really fucking sick of people acting like Peter was dead.

Or did it swing back to gaslighting again because they were wrong? It wasn’t like they were trying to reshape the narrative in a way that erased his experiences. They were just really, really wrong.

And they felt the need to babysit Wade because of it.

See, Code WWW3 was an Avenger code made specifically for when Wade went off the deep end. Wade would be offended, except (oopsie, poopsie) Wade kinda made his last mental breakdown a threat to national security. It was thing of miracles that they’d let him date in the first place, considering how poorly he responded to his loved ones being murderer.

Well, it sucked to be them! Things weren’t the same this time around, mostly because, a, Peter would be super pissed at him if Wade used his death as an excuse to go on a murder rampage, and, b, in case you forgot, Peter wasn’t fucking dead.

And how did he know that? Elementary, dear Watson: no Major Character Death warning tag. But you try explaining that to people without the power to scroll up!

But death, of course, wasn’t one of the worst things that could happen to people.

Petey could be kidnapped right now. He could be tortured. Experimented on. Starved. Messed with psychologically. _Hurt._ The tagging system only went so far as a portent.

So, entirely of his own volition, Wade was still at the upstate compound. He was crammed in a conference room with a bunch of other assholes, dejectedly scrolling through his phone as everyone else tried to set up a timeline. The Four were phoning it in—literally, not in a sarcastic way. Peter’s boss, also over the phone, shared what she knew while a present Jessica Jones grimly added things to a white board.

Clint was sitting next to Wade, idly twirling an arrowhead. Banner was on the other side next to Steve, out of his comfort zone but trying to offer moral support. Vision was conferring with FRIDAY about different social media reports they’d found—so far, inconclusive. Scott was behind Wade, leaning on Wade’s only way out—the door.

People were missing from the table, of course. Wade hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Jessica’s charming teammates in a while. The X-Men were X-Out. Stark was gone too, following his own leads. Hope was out of town, Rhodey was talking to the chief of police, and Wanda was grilling the Daily Bugle staff for more information.

Thor hadn’t been on Earth since before Wade went full Pinocchio and became a real Avenger—which was probably for the best. If that beautiful, well intentioned man tried to tell Wade that Peter was ‘surely given a warrior’s welcome to Valhalla’, Wade would be contractually obligated to stab him in his other eye. Just saying. Check the fine print.

Ahem. Anyway.

As the last of the most useful Avengers out and about, Sam was back in the city, talking to the hospitals to try and figure out where Peter was. Somehow, the body went missing after its dramatic debut on daytime television. Very sus, if you asked him. Also, point in favor of the Petey’s not dead column.

Resigned, Wade sent off another text. That made 126 eggplants so far, Peter’s least favorite emoji. Still no response. He clutched onto the phone a little tighter, despair choking him.

He was just _talking_ to Peter. Just kissing Peter. Friday was the day Wade was going to lay everything out on the line. Peter was just supposed to be at work.

And sitting here, listening to everyone talk about him? It was all unbelievably horrible. He was listening to the timeline just so he could figure out when Peter had disappeared. Everyone else was creating the timeline so they could figure out when Peter died.

And Wade just couldn’t take it anymore.

He stood—and boy howdy, that was a mistake. He was suddenly the focus of everyone in the room, and not in a good way. Everyone was tensed up as if they were prepared for a fight, even Steve. Banner’s eyes had a touch of green, and Wade suddenly remembered that no one had called off Code WWW3.

“Wade,” Steve said carefully. “Where are you going?”

Next to him, Clint lightly spun his chair to face Wade too, and it reminded Wade that Clint wasn’t his bro. Clint was probably hiding a tranquilizer dart in those obnoxious arm guards of his. His easy, relaxed stance told Wade that Clint was ready to stab him with it at a second’s notice—probably when his back was turned.

God, he missed Natasha. She would have been a real bro and just kicked him in the face like a normal human being. _Respect._

Wade had resigned himself to sitting back down like a good guy when, suddenly, his phone rang. It wasn’t Peter, but it was the next best thing.

Wade sucked in a deep breath, then answered the phone. “Hi, Aunt May,” he greeted carefully, gripping the top of his mask.

This was met with everything from confusion to saddened understanding to an annoyed friend on the other end of the call.

“What the fuck. I’m not your aunt,” Weasel said slowly. He was munching on chips. “Wait. Since when do you have an aunt? Is she hot?”

Wade stepped away from the table, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, I just heard. No. No, you shouldn’t go in to identify the body. Look, it’s hard to explain-”

“Okay. Now, I know this is a distraction tactic… but it’s dark as fuck, and I don’t like it.”

Weasel didn’t like this? Tough shit, at least he was in the passenger seat. Wade, on the other hand, was sweating. He was also really counting on Steve’s innate politeness for this shit to work. Thank fuck Bucky went to the city. He’d think nothing about eavesdropping. You’d think he’d spent most of his adulthood being jerked around by HYDRA or something.

“I’m still trying to figure out what happened myself,” Wade said in a hushed voice. “Kiss Ben for me?”

“The only Ben I’m kissing is the Ben and Jerry’s carton in my freezer, motherfucker.”

Wade pressed the phone to his chest. “Oh god, she’s crying now,” he mumbled. He turned to the rest of the group, his voice thick. “I’m sorry, can I- can I have some privacy?”

Scott hastily jumped out of the way of the door. “Of course!”

“Thank you, you’re so kind,” Wade gushed, stepping out of the room. He saw Steve’s eyes narrow. Oops, a little too much? He hastily brought the phone back up to his ear.

Weasel was already in the middle of some nonsense. “-and I saw the news, and I called cuz I know you’re warm for his form, and I just- hey.” He sighed, sounding uncomfortable. “Try not to go on another murdering spree, alright? It makes the rest of us look unproductive.”

“Wade…” Steve said warningly. He’d followed Wade out, just like he feared he would.

Now for the big guns. His back to Steve, Wade pulled off his mask.

“Yeah, yeah. I like to think he died peacefully too…” Wade choked out, sniffling. He pulled a wad of tissues from his utility belt and blotted non-existent tears from his face. Then he noisily blew his nose.

“Okay, you know what? You are a horrible person, and you should feel bad.”

As if just noticing his teammate, Wade turned around. “I’m sorry, what?” He rubbed at his face furiously.

When he opened his eyes again, Steve looked uncomfortable and sad. “Just… come back when you’re done.” Reluctantly, Steve went back to the conference room. Wade breathed out a weak word of gratitude to his back.

Then, the second the door was closed, he changed his tune. “Weez, I’m up north and I’m surrounded by helicopter friends. I need an exit.” He shook out his mask, shoving it over his skull one-handedly. “Daddy’s not home, and his red haired stepchild is busy comparing notes with his better, hotter son.” Wade yanked his mask down to his chin, covering up.

“…I hate that I understood all of that. Whatever. I’ve been wanting to fuck Tony Stark’s shit up for ages.” The clacking of keys came over from Weasel’s side of the call. “When I say go, you better fucking get, cuz I can’t guarantee you more than five minutes of cover.” Weasel sounded admiring. “Red haired stepchild or not, that AI is a beast. I’d marry her if I could.”

“Never say never,” Wade said. “Look at Wanda! The future is bright for kinky fucks like you. Now get me the _fuck_ out of here!”


	7. Chapter 7

“Are you _seriously_ trying to put your phone back together right now?”

Peter froze, caught red handed. He had a DIY soldering kit going in a bathroom that wasn’t his and half of a protein bar sticking out of his mouth. In the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, Yuri looked super pissed.

But, honestly? That was the least of his worries right now.

Spider-Man had been “officially” dead for almost two hours. He’d been an accessory to two more B&Es, which were apparently necessary to sneak out of Yuri’s building without anyone noticing. He’d been forced to leave his mask behind and put on some stranger’s clothes, a stranger who was both much taller and much skinnier than he was. In these tight, too long clothes, he’d stood by, awkwardly waiting as Yuri hotwired a car in the middle of a street in broad daylight. He’d always flirted a bit with the lines between what was legal and what was not—but today, Yuri had slammed through those lines like a semi-truck through a supermarket.

And now, here he was, was sitting in the middle of a “safe house” near Inwood Hill Park, and he had yet to make a single call or text to his loved ones. What was May thinking? Ben? _Wade?_

He didn’t regret stepping up to the plate to nail the Benefactor, but sheesh! When Yuri said she only trusted four people, she’d been dead serious. Yuri wasn’t letting him talk to anyone, not even a peep of small talk with the guy selling bagels around the corner. While he logically understood her desire to want to keep him isolated and unknown to the people following her, he had a feeling he had made a series of stupid decisions in the worst order.

“What part of _you’re being followed_ don’t you understand?” Yuri demanded. Peter wasn’t surprised when she yanked his phone from his hands, but he mourned the loss of his progress. He’d just connected the battery with the CPU and the SIM card. The screen was badly cracked, but not completely ruined. With another ten minutes of fiddling, he probably could have turned on his phone and shot off at least one text message. 

Yuri shoved the pieces in her pocket, clearly not trusting him anymore. Peter followed her into the main room, resigned. It wasn’t fair. Why did his phone get smashed and not hers? Yes, people could be tracked very easily today, but his phone was made by SI. The tech was head and shoulders above the rest of the phones on the market. While that 100% meant Tony was probably tracking Peter himself, Peter doubted anyone else could. Tony was kind of territorial like that.

And while Peter was rabidly protective of his privacy, he was now welcoming the idea of being tracked by Iron Man. Just for today, anyway. 

Sighing, Peter looked up from the ground, then blinked in surprise.

Half full cardboard boxes had been moved out from under the bed and brought out to the main living area. Some of them were more empty than others, and Peter only had to look around to figure out why.

Damn, how long had he been in the bathroom?

What had been a pretty bare apartment had now been transformed into investigation central. The walls were full of maps and photos—some of people, some of buildings. Yuri used the back of the door leading into the bedroom to pin up suspicious deaths and disappearances associated with the Benefactor—and that space was already pretty full. More pictures had been strung across the two main walls of the apartment, held up only by a rope and some clips.

Yuri had also moved the kitchen table in the middle of it all, and that table was a mess. There were more pictures—of course—but there were also at least six thick stacks of printed paper and a wad of cash. Yuri was leaning over a box, pulling out a bunch of spiral notebooks.

Noticing Peter’s attention on her, she said, “This is all the information Henderson was able to gather to assist his case,” she said grimly, tossing the notebooks on the table.

“He was kind of old school, huh?” Peter said, approaching the table carefully. He flipped through the different stacks, noticing they included everything from purchase orders to conversation transcripts to a detailed internet history of a Mark Hoffman.

Yuri huffed out a quiet laugh, nudging another box closer to the table. “That was Henderson for sure. Very fond of his photos and paper trails. Not so found of computers.”

Which was a shame, Peter thought. He liked physical books as much as the next person, but he’d been spoiled by the tech he’d been able to use over the years. The Fantastic Four had an awesome set up in their labs, fit for space explorers and connected to every type of science and experimental stations Reed could think of. The Avengers had holographic computers and, of course, an AI whose first instinct was to cross examine information for patterns. Even Oscorp’s tech regularly cut through time consuming tasks through easy interfaces and the ability to instantly display information vertically in space in an eyeball friendly color.

Henderson’s process wasn’t so much old fashioned as it was a leap back into noir-style detective work. But maybe that was on purpose. Maybe Henderson was as paranoid as his boss and wanted to avoid relying on tech that could expose him to his enemies.

Not that that had saved him in the end.

“Listen up,” Yuri said authoritatively, breaking Peter from his thoughts. She was standing on the other side of the table, leaning over it. “The easiest way to get on the Benefactor’s radar is to get recruited for the fights. You know this. Gambling’s always been an issue in this city, and these fights are no exception. So far, the most conservative estimates of his profit? At least a million a week—and the fights are just getting started.” Peter looked down quickly. She continued after a pause. She’d noticed. “The fighters are being recruited from gyms, gangs, clubs, you name it. They’re even hitting up homeless shelters and centers aimed at felon rehabilitation.”

“Doesn’t seem right that he’s profiting that much so quickly, and no one’s reporting the fights,” Peter said quickly.

Yuri shot him a quick, tight lipped smile. Point for Peter. “That’s the thing. It’s not. No one has a clue where they’re located, otherwise we would have been tipped off a long time ago.” She pushed herself up from the table, crossing her arms over her chest. “But Henderson had a theory that the fights were extremely exclusive, invitation only.”

Peter watched her carefully, eyes narrowed. “While that’s safer, that certainly puts a limit on his profits, doesn’t it?”

“Exactly,” Yuri said with satisfaction. Two points for Peter. “That’s why my theory is that the fights are being streamed, and that a majority of the gambling is being done online.” She pushed a stack of grainy screen shots in Peter’s direction. “Sure enough, we found many examples of these kinds of fights on the dark web. While it’s difficult to tell which ones are directly connected to the Benefactor, we were able to cross reference some identities and find some New York citizens, as well as a number of people who have been reported missing.” Yuri hesitated, then said with an odd note in her voice, “You can thank Ramirez for that.”

Peter looked over the screenshots, noting the work of Yuri’s other dead detective. A number of the photos had X’s and O’s over people’s faces, and copious notes had been written in the corners with a sprawling, all caps hand. He’d never met Ramirez, but he could almost imagine the satisfaction that followed finding all of these missed connections.

BOOM. YOU’RE WELCOME, he’d written on the last screenshot, drawing a devil happy face with a long, curling tail.

Had Henderson, Ramirez, and Stanley still been alive, how long would it have taken for them to bring down the Benefactor? Likely not very long, especially with a situation of this criminal magnitude sitting on their laps.

Despite its reputation, New York had always had an uncomfortable relationship with gambling, banning many forms of it that were deemed acceptable in other regions. The state had only loosened the reins a bit in the last few years after fierce lobbying efforts. But the one area it stood firm on was the legality of betting on fights.

In the nineties, several widely publicized matches in New York ended with deaths of one or more of the participants. It was an ugly scene with many pointed fingers. One such accusation—never proven—was thrown at the fighting organizations themselves, alleging that they intentionally recruited people with invisible mutations to gain an edge over their opponents.

The state cracked down on this hard. It not only passed a slew of legislation to ensure the health and safety of all fighters, but it also outright banned gambling on the sport, arguing that the recruiting tactics of the organizations involved were motivated only by deadly greed. And maybe they had a point. Since those laws passed, the fighting scene in New York practically evaporated—minus a few highly illegal fight clubs, of course.

Peter was almost positive the fights depicted in these screenshots were not up to regulation. He was pretty sure this one fighter was holding a pickaxe, of all things. People were not just getting hurt in these fights, he bet. They were being maimed or even outright killed.

“You might have to stay for a while,” Yuri told him. “Win a fight or two. That’s the only way you’re going to get a chance to see the Benefactor. There’s no way he’s sitting front row and center. Hell, most people don’t even know what he looks like. You’ll need to be patient. You’re going to have to get in, then get his interest, then get out.”

Peter looked up. “How long?”

Yuri shrugged. “Henderson thought it could take anywhere from months to weeks.”

Weeks, Peter was expecting. Months, though? Uncomfortable with that idea, he rubbed the back of his neck. If anything, it was probably a good test to see if he was as redundant as Johnny thought he was.

“Here are the photos of the known recruiters,” Yuri said, tossing him three pictures.

All three of them were taken at a distance. The first one was of a bald, wide shouldered wall of a man. He was lifting a man by his collar, one broad finger jabbed in his victim’s face and his teeth gritted in something approaching rage. He was a beast of a guy, and Peter was used to being around massive men.

The second man would have looked like an average, 40 year old white male, if not for the lariat he had dangling from his belt. He had thick, sandy brown handlebar mustache to match, and he was leaning against a brick wall, looking further down a street. He had a huge knife in his hands, and he was using the tip of it to pick under his fingernails.

The third photo made Peter pause. 

“Daniel Brito,” Yuri said, noticing. “You know him?

The third man was smaller than both, noticeably so. A good portion of him was hidden behind the newspaper he had open in front of him, and his eyes were covered with black aviators. He had dark hair cropped closer to the sides of his head and a completely bare face.

“You never answered my question about statues,” Peter said, stalling. Yuri shot him a look of death. It was super effective. “He doesn’t know me as Henderson, that’s for sure. But he doesn’t know me as Spider-Man or Peter Parker either.” Peter leaned back away from the table, wincing. He crossed his arms over his chest protectively. “When I was… a bit younger than I care to admit, I suddenly gained superpowers. So, obviously, I tried to use them to get rich quick-”

“Of all people,” Yuri said, half in awe. “ _You_. Using mutated superpowers to get rich. That would be like hearing Captain America cuss out the President.”

“Mistakes were made,” Peter replied, squinting at her. “Plus, Captain America committed treason once. He’d _totally_ swear out a president in the right circumstances.” Steve was a man with strong opinions and an upright moral character who favored honesty and good intentions. The fact that he hadn’t already cussed out a modern politician in a massive, public way was nothing short of a miracle.

Peter shook his head, getting back on track. “Anyway, Brito had a fighting operation going on in Queens and Manhattan. He kept it light and mobile, always moving it when they started getting too much attention. Everyone knew about it, but the constant movement of the arena made it hard for the cops to fully catch on.” He’d been fifteen at the time? Maybe sixteen? And extremely persistent. Peter was half convinced Brito let him in on that first fight in hopes he’d get his ass thoroughly kicked. “Let’s just say he was willing to accept some significant… character defects from a suspicious teenager looking to score some easy cash.”

“And why is that?”

“I made him a lot of money,” Peter said bluntly. “But, eventually, the cops did catch on to him. He was out on bail for a while, then he got nailed on a whole bunch of other charges and got tossed into prison. A lovely institution that, according to my math, he should still be in right now—and for at least another five years.”

Peter shot her a pointed look. Yeah, he was still a little salty about not being told about.

“Brito, huh?” Yuri hummed thoughtfully. “You know, Henderson thought Brito would be the hardest to approach. He’d committed to approaching Jackson Brice first, and Raymond Bloch only if that failed. He said Brito was a little too canny.”

“Brito is kind of a hardass. But I’ll remind him of what we were able to do together.” He’d rather tap Brito. Mr. Handlebar Mustache and the Hulk’s slightly smaller brother were unknowns to him.

“Fine,” Yuri said, moving on. “You can go by whatever name you gave him. You’re not the only one lying about your name in this business. But if somebody does ask you who you are…”

“My name is Mark Hoffman,” Peter guessed, patting one pile of paperwork. Mark Hoffman was 26. Software designer by day, gambler by night. Mark was in debt $80K, and desperate for money. Like most savvy internet users his ages, his social media accounts were locked down pretty tight, but a few “careless” forum posts positioned him as someone offering to do absolutely anything for quick cash. “Once I’m in, what kind of evidence do you want me to gather?”

“Nothing,” Yuri said quickly. “No pictures. No wiretaps. No informants. _Nothing._ ” She looked grim. “No weapons or phones either. If this is going to work, it has to be a tight operation. No more than the clothes off your back. If I were them, I’d expect more. And I’d strip search you too.”

No phones, he figured. If he had to judge Henderson’s approach by just what was in the safe house, then Henderson had likely planned to go in with nothing but his wallet and maybe enough money to bribe himself deeper into the Benefactor’s operation.

Yuri started digging through the boxes again. “All I need from you is coordinates. Stay long enough to figure out where the Benefactor is, then slip away and tell me where he’s at. I’ll come for you then. But it has to be solid information, okay? It has to be accurate—and preferably, somewhere where he’s surrounded by a mountain load of evidence.

“That’s a tall order,” he warned her.

“And you don’t have to do this,” she reminded him, slamming another stack of papers on the table with a thud.

Peter was quiet for a while, just watching Yuri. There was a wildness to her he wasn’t familiar with. He was used to her being sardonic and composed at the worst of times. Even with Vitanova-poisoned citizens attacking her, even with turrets on the streets, aimed at her people… she’d always been focused and purposeful in ways Peter could predict. Now, though…

She’d been hit hard by the deaths of her top subordinates. On top of that, the likelihood of someone in her precinct betraying her had hit a raw nerve. Peter had dealt with corrupt cops before and had been frustrated and upset by the experience. But he never once thought about what it was like to be a good cop surrounded by poisonous apples.

“Killing my men was a message,” Yuri said evenly. She was crouching, digging through the evidence slowly. “The Benefactor knows who I am and what I know, and he’s one step ahead of me.”

“I won’t let you down, Yuri,” Peter promised.

Yuri looked up, startled at that.

She flinched again when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She stood, pulled it out, and looked at it. She made a face. “Great. I have to go answer some questions about your death.” She pointed at him, phone and all. “Keep your head down, memorize your cover, and don’t leave the apartment. I’ll be right back.” She grabbed her coat from where she had tossed it over a chair. “And don’t you fucking dare connect two cups and a piece of string!”

There was no landline, he’d already noted. No computers, laptops, or tablets in the entire apartment. No smart home connections either and probably no wifi. And, of course, Yuri just walked out the front door with pieces of his cell phone in her pocket.

He could probably talk to a neighbor, but what if he chose the wrong one? What if this place was as surrounded as Yuri’s apartment? Peter could blow this whole undercover assignment before he’d even started. Frustrated, Peter blew out a tight breath, deciding to follow Yuri’s instructions instead.

He wasn’t very productive about it, though. Preoccupied with the thought of no communication, Peter despondently pushed around the papers around, attention flitting from stack to stack restlessly. He declined to memorize Hoffman’s internet history. He briefly scanned a family tree—nothing interesting there. No parents, no children, no significant other. Hoffman was a software designer, but he worked freelance, which Peter didn’t know people could do. If someone asked Peter to design some software on the spot, he was screwed. But at least he had in his back pocket the realization that Henderson had designed Hoffman to be a pretty pisspoor freelancer. His reviews online were horrible, describing him as a flaky underachiever who didn’t meet deadlines. Peter was no stranger to bad performance reviews, but that was before he drew boundaries between his professional life and Spider-Man.

Peter moved on and glanced at the fake identification admiringly. He could pass as this man, sort of. With a comb and copious amounts of hair gel. Peter patted his hair self-consciously, then dropped it back on the table.

He reached for the spirals next, skimming through where Henderson had compiled a list of additional information about his cover. The notes were excessive—who cared if Hoffman was a cat person or a dog person? Worried he’d have to remember all of this, Peter made a face and moved onto the next spiral.

There, the saga of Mark Hoffman continued, but only for five more pages. The rest of the spiral was a blank slate. Peter had always been frugal, and the waste annoyed him.

But it occurred to him suddenly that while Henderson had wasted paper, Peter didn’t have to. Even if he couldn’t call everyone, he could at least write and explain what was happening. Henderson didn’t hold the monopoly on doing things old school. 

Eager, Peter shoved himself away from the table, hunting down a pen.

-

Jessica walked out of the subway and into the street. She looked at the already darkening winter sky. Still no snow today, huh? Frowning, she tugged her scarf higher on her face and kept walking to her destination. Ahead of her loomed the police station she’d been pointed to, but she paused in the plaza just outside of it, scanning pedestrians faces critically for a hint of her backup.

Meanwhile, she typed out a familiar number on her phone, holding it to her ear as it rang. And rang. And rang. Then the voicemail answered. Jessica let out a low, frustrated breath, watching it curl visibly in front of her.

“Hi,” she said flatly to the machine. “I don’t know where the hell you fucked off to the last few weeks, but… Just check the news, okay? I could have used some of your serenity today, shithead.”

She hung up, not sure why she expected Matt to answer now, of all times. But she tried. She shoved her hands back in her pockets and tried not to glower too obviously.

As much as she hated her assigned task, she didn’t have the worst one. Colonel Rhodes had already secured a promise of support from the police chief, but George Stacy was as clueless as they were about the events that built up to Peter’s death. He’d suggested they start with the cop closest to Spider-Man and one of the few cops on the force who had actually been to the crime scene itself—Yuri Watanabe.

Which was great. That was sure to be a swell conversation, given their last interaction. Fuck.

But at least she wasn’t Steve and Bucky. Given all the boots hitting the ground over this, they’d prioritized finding Wade. No one had been totally clear about what they expected to find when they had Wade, but the implication was that it would be bloody.

Jessica wasn’t sure she agreed. Wade had been antsy at that meeting, but not murder a bunch of people antsy. But he also hadn’t seemed too impressed with their conclusion that Peter was dead, even when looking at the video evidence. Was it denial? At this point, she didn’t know if he was being overly obstinate or just painfully optimistic.

Which made Jessica’s task even worse, now that she thought about it. If Jessica’s conversation went well with Yuri today, she was going to be taking Peter home. A dead body was undeniably hard evidence in a situation they’d only been able to respond to from afar. How would Wade react to that? Probably not well.

Her gaze swept across the civilians one more time before she stopped, seeing a familiar face in the crowd. Maria Hill was leaning against a pillar, watching her steadily. One hand was hidden deep in her pocket, and the other was holding a brightly colored smoothie with a tiny umbrella sticking out of it. Of all people. Of all seasons.

Stumped in disbelief, Jessica made her way over to the Deputy Director of SHIELD. “Really?”

“I’m on vacation,” Maria said. Then she slurped from her straw noisily.

“Really,” Jessica said, the word changing in both tone and judgement level.

Maria’s deadpan expression didn’t budge. Jessica snorted, shaking her head. A tropical beverage wasn’t a stand-in for a vacation; Maria was worse than Jessica. At least she had the vague idea of fucking off to the other side of the country.

She started walking to the police station. “So. Are you my carrot or my stick?”

Maria followed her. “Try moral support.”

“I would've rather had Natasha,” Jessica told her. “But Clint said you were just as good.”

“In certain circumstances, I am. And here I am, despite being on vacation.” Maria opened the door to the station for them, then held it. “Shall we?”

Jessica entered the station. She’d never visited this one before as the detective she usually worked with worked in a different one, but she knew this precinct was a slightly smaller one. It was the end result of a much larger one reorganized into several precincts so that the officers stationed there could focus on a smaller area of New York City. 

Seeing them enter, an officer came around and led them past the public access area without a fuss. It seemed they had been warned. They were brought back to the bullpen. Back here, the station seemed busy, but there was a muted air to it. On the wall in front of them, two photos were hung up of men Jessica didn’t recognize. A few officers seemed to cluster together defensively around the desks. Even the senior cops with their own offices were out and about, mingling with their subordinates. Most of the officers were probably out on patrol.

And then there was Yuri. She was standing in the captain’s office, facing the left with crossed arms. At their approach, she walked out of the office, meeting them in the middle of the bullpen.

Her eyes jumped immediately to Jessica. Of course. “Since when do you work with SHIELD?” she said in lieu of a greeting. This garnered some attention from the other officers, who watched discreetly.

Jessica would have figured this conversation was sensitive enough to warrant some privacy, but Yuri didn’t seem inclined to offer any. She gritted her teeth and moved on. “Since this afternoon,” she said flatly. “We’re here retrieve Spider-Man’s body.”

Yuri’s arms stayed crossed over her chest. “Have at it. His body was taken away by the EMTs shortly after its discovery.”

When Yuri gave her no more information, Jessica said, irritably, “So where did they take it?”

Yuri shrugged, expression blank. “Beats me.”

Jessica huffed out a sarcastic laugh. “Seems sloppy.”

Yuri glowered at her. “I know SHIELD doesn’t lower itself to listening to local chatter, but our hospital systems have been a mess after the riots on Ryker’s Island.” Yuri leaned in, eyes narrow. “So I reiterate—you are more than welcome to check the hospitals. All of them. And good luck trying to find it.”

Jessica wasn’t sure what she expected from Yuri, but she’d thought there would be at least an ounce of collaboration. Instead, Yuri’s response was so fucking cold, Jessica wanted to scream. Her mind tripped to the worst-case scenario—what if Spider-Man’s body was lost? She was overwhelmed with the sudden thought of not being able to give Peter’s family or friends any closure. After everything they’d been through, Peter deserved a kind send off. And everyone else deserved the right to grieve, mourn, and honor him.

While Jessica struggled to come up with a response, Maria suddenly stepped up to her shoulder. “I don’t think you understand the seriousness of this, Captain,” she said. “It’s not sentimentality. It’s a public safety concern.”

It sounded like she got off the fence and decided to be Jessica’s stick. She’d also, at some point, ditched her tropical drink. Jessica hated that she’d missed that.

Then Jessica noticed the quiet of the bullpen and spared a glance across the room. Yup, they were definitely getting more and more attention with this.

Maria continued without a care. “Spider-Man is a mutate, and many unexpected things happen when mutates die. For this reason, we need to find and quarantine Spider-Man’s corpse so people don’t get hurt.” It was an impressively delivered set of patently untrue statements delivered in such a bland tone that they all seemed like facts.

But Yuri wasn’t convinced. “Even if I knew that was a thing, I still can’t give you his body. Sorry to have wasted your time.” With that, she dismissed them, walking back to her office.

Frustrated, Jessica watched her go. Then her eyes jumped beyond her at the sight of movement, someone quickly retreating behind the blinds of Yuri’s office window. Weird.

But Maria wasn’t quite done. “Captain,” she called out after her, “why do you think Spider-Man is dead?”

Yuri stopped just outside her door. She turned. “Are you seriously asking me that?” Yuri said slowly, visibly angry. “Why would someone kill Captain America? Iron Man? The Fantastic Four? Figure it out for yourself.” She walked into her office and slammed the door behind her.

After a moment, the silence of the bullpen was broken, but eyes were not on Jessica or Maria. They were fixed on their captain’s retreat.

“Huh. Interesting.” With that comment, Maria walked out.

After a beat, Jessica hurried after her. “No luck, huh?” she said. “What about some pressure?”

Maria inclined a head, nodding at the officer who opened a door for her. She didn’t respond until they were in the waiting area for the public. Only then did she say, “There’s a time and place for a show of force. This isn’t it.” Maria pushed open the door to the outside plaza, saying brightly, “We’ve learned a lot today, haven’t we?”

Jessica ducked her face lower in her scarf. “Of course I learned a lot. But maybe we should compare notes so we’re on the same page.”

Maria laughed shortly—and, _motherfucker_ , she had her drink again. How? When did that happen? “Yuri Watanabe is a veteran police officer with a documented track record and proven investigative skills. Even in her military career, she was praised for her ability to cut through the noise and ask the right questions.”

“So?”

“Life isn’t Clue, Jessica.”

“I know that,” Jessica spat, annoyed. “You don’t figure out Colonel Mustard killed Mrs. White in the kitchen with a candle stick with process of elimination alone.”

Maria nodded. “Who. What. Where. When. Why. How. A basic investigative structure, but effective,” she said. “Five of the six are elements of the crime scene, but it’s rare to see a successfully closed case without the detectives presenting a plausible theory of why. That’s why many investigators will start there before they’ve even figured out what the murder weapon was.” Maria stopped, turning to face Jessica. She raised her eyebrows, a faint disbelieving smile on her lips. “But Yuri Watanabe doesn’t have a single theory for Spider-Man’s murder? Seems suspicious.” As if to punctuate that, she slurped loudly on her straw.

Jessica hated that she agreed. She shoved her hands in her pockets. “What now?”

“Now, nothing,” Maria said. “The NYPD still has jurisdiction, and SHIELD has no authority here. Spider-Man is not an Avenger and, unfortunately, his death doesn’t meet the MCE threshold that would necessitate our interference.”

Jessica frowned. “What’s- what’s MCE mean?”

“Minimum Casualty Event.”

That hit a sore spot for Jessica. And she’d been so caught up with the thrill of working with a competent ally, she had no defenses for it. She was breathless for a moment—then breathtakingly furious. This was exactly why she hated working with SHIELD.

“There’s nothing _minimal_ about someone murdering Spider-Man.”

Maria noticed her anger. “To you,” she said, almost apologetically. When Jessica said nothing, she sighed. “ _Look._ Yuri is not a woman who loses track of the body of her closest super powered ally. Watch this situation. Watch her. I have no doubt this will get more interesting. Until then, SHIELD’s official stance is to defer to the Avengers on this. If you want more help with this-”

Jessica cut her off. “Trust me, we’ve been keeping in touch.”

“Good,” Maria said, sounding pleased. “Have to say, I’ve really been enjoying this heightened sense of collaboration between you all. Keep up the good work.”

Jessica was glad she didn’t have a mirror. She didn’t want to see the kind of face she pulled at that statement. It probably wasn’t kind.

But Maria was right. Yuri wasn’t a cold-hearted person, and if Peter could be believed, the two of them were actually friends. If all of that was true, then what was keeping her from trying to figure out his murder? Either she knew something they didn’t, or Wade was onto something.

Maybe Yuri had been directly involved with Peter’s death.

Or maybe Peter wasn’t dead at all.

-

The door to the apartment opened without warning, not even a whisper from his spidey sense. So Peter didn’t look up, too busy re-sorting the evidence. “Welcome home, honey!” he said in a sing songy voice.

Yuri didn’t say anything back to him. She just stopped in the kitchen area. “…That was three months’ worth of food,” she said, stunned.

Peter looked up then, registering the trash and used dishes that resulted from his last hunt for sustenance. Yeah. It was kind of a mess. “I was hungry?” he offered. “How was work?”

“Your friends are annoying,” Yuri said, still distracted by the mess. She shook her head once, then pulled out a trash can. But instead of starting on the carnage in the kitchen, she dragged it over to the table of evidence. “Get ready to go.”

“What? Why?” Peter said, his alarm growing when she took his carefully stacked papers and shoved it all in the trash can. His life’s work!

“Someone almost ran me off the road. I think I lost them, but I don’t trust this place anymore.” She picked up the false ID and shoved it at Peter. She then managed to get the rest of the table clear in one sweeping motion. “I need to disappear for a while, and you need to leave.” She pulled out a match book, struck a match, and dropped it in the trashcan full of papers.

Peter helped her tear down the rest of the evidence, tossing it into the fire. She wouldn’t answer him when he asked if this evidence had copies. She also didn’t put out the fire, barking at him when he attempted to fill a cup of water. But he still followed her out of the unit when the fire alarm eventually went off, leaving the door wide open behind him. They’d just rounded a corner to go down the stairs when a neighbor came out, peering into the unit with a phone in hand.

After a couple of flights, they got down to the parking garage. Once seated in Yuri’s stolen car, she started breathlessly quizzing him on Henderson’s fake cover. She turned on the car and pulled out of the parking garage.

Peter didn’t play along, and it didn’t take Yuri much time to figure out why. “It will be fine.”

“Leaving a fire in a residential apartment complex is not fine, Yuri,” Peter snapped. “It’s bad. Do you know how fast some of these places go up? You should. How many of these have we responded to together?”

Yuri stared at him for a bit. Then she swore at him quietly. She picked up her phone, dialing with one hand on the phone and one hand on the wheel. “Hi, I want to report a kitchen fire in a 200-unit apartment complex near Inwood Hill Park. Yeah. Yeah. Uh huh.”

As she traded more information with the police, Peter relaxed slowly in his seat. Yuri was probably right, he figured. The trashcan was metal, the smoke detectors worked, and a neighbor was already responding to it. But every fire he’d ever responded to had been a bad one, even the ones where everyone got out okay.

Of all the crimes they had committed today, this was the one he could stomach the least.

Yuri ended the call. “Happy?”

“Yes,” Peter said honestly, looking out the window. Their trajectory was random and often looping. In and out of parking lots. Up streets. Down streets.

“I hope it was worth it,” she said tightly. She floored the car, shooting across an intersection just before it turned red. “Because now that the dispatchers know I’ve called in an incident, the Benefactor definitely knows where we are.”

Peter snapped his attention back to her. “You can’t think that the 911 operators are in on this.”

“Why not? The mole could be anyone—any number of people. It could be one of the traffic cops. It could be one of our civilian employees. It could even be the officer who tried to make me a cup of coffee today.” Her hands tightened on the wheel. “I can’t trust _anyone_.” She shot a glance at him. “You’re not Spider-Man right now. You’re Mark Hoffman, and the faster you realize that, the better.”

“I-”

But Yuri wasn’t done. “If you think you can pull off this crap while you’re undercover, I might as well drop you off home because there’s _no way_ this is going to work.” Peter fell silent as they continued to take a zig-zagging path across Manhattan. After a beat, Yuri sighed, sounding somewhat regretful.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Yuri said. “You’re my last shot, Spidey. I’ve put all my hopes in you, and I haven’t been kind about it.”

“You’ve given me several outs,” Peter reminded her kindly.

Yuri laughed under her breath, somewhat pained. “And I’d like to give you several more, but I’m scared you’ll take me up on one.”

“I won’t,” Peter said firmly. She shot him a look that was half-exasperated, half-fond. “I mean it.”

“I know you do,” she said sadly. The next time she started quizzing him on Mark Hoffman, he compiled obediently.

The drive took another 45 minutes. By this time, it was dark, and the night was creeping in. Peter failed many of the Hoffman trivia questions, but Yuri didn’t seem to mind. Anyone who had an encyclopedic knowledge of their cover was automatically suspicious in her book, a stance that Henderson apparently hadn’t agreed with. But Peter remembered the basic details and a majority of the historical facts. All that mattered was that his answers were consistent, and she felt he could lean on his own personal history to cover any gaps that his cover failed to fill.

He’d just finished filling in the wallet with Hoffman’s fake identification, some cash, and two stamp cards for bagel places in Manhattan when Yuri pulled up next to an alleyway and told him to get out. Peter grabbed his ill-fitting, ill-gotten coat as well as a ski mask that he’d nabbed from the safe house. Yuri rolled her eyes at the sight of it, but Peter didn’t let that bother him. He’d managed to survive his last experience with Daniel Brito without ever showing his face. Why not hope for a round two?

He got out of the car, then leaned over, surrendering his pride and joy to Yuri.

“What’s this?” Yuri asked, sounding reluctantly amused. She took them, flipping them over.

“Envelopes made out of TV dinner boxes.” He was kind of proud of the end result, never having been an arts and craft person. “Also, a couple of letters to the people in my life.” Yuri’s growing smile fell. “I have to explain to someone what’s going on.”

“The fewer people who know about this, the better.”

“They can be trusted, Yuri,” Peter argued. “They can help.”

Yuri squinted at the envelopes. “Tony Stark, May and Ben Parker, and… Wade Wilson?” His eyebrows needled together. She probably realized she knew that name. “You mean _Deadpool_?”

“Yes,” Peter said, a little uncomfortable. Maybe the public perception of a connection between Peter and Wade wasn’t as widespread as he once thought. Yuri herself seemed surprised. “You don’t have to give it to Wade if you don’t want to. In fact, I’m sure if you give it to May and Ben, they’ll pass it on.” His ears were burning. The longer he spoke, the more he realized the stupidity of Yuri acting as a mail carrier while on the run. He forged on. “Or you could even give all three of them to Mr. Stark. You don’t even have to talk to him! He’s been renovating the old Avengers Tower in town, and FRIDAY is monitoring the security. You could probably toss it in a window or something, and she’ll alert him to it-”

“That’s not the… point,” Yuri said. But she didn’t seem inclined to follow up with that. Instead, she put the letters down on the passenger side seat. “Good luck.”

Peter nodded, backing away from the car. “Stay safe.” He closed the door and backed up in the alley, watching her leave.

He stayed there, even after she rounded the corner. He didn’t recognize the area he was in—especially not from street level—but he didn’t feel the prickling sensation of eyes on him just yet. He probably wasn’t being followed. He waited another minute, nodded to himself, and took off down the alleyway.

According to Henderson, Brito was a man married to his routines. It was almost about seven. Peter’s old employer was likely at the Bar with No Name, a criminal haven that tended to bounce from location to location in New York. Yuri’s intel said that the newest spot was about seven blocks away on foot—and Brito never stayed that long. Peter had to hurry up.

When he was about a block away, Peter dodged into an alley and put on the ski mask. He crouched behind a trash bin, psyching himself up. He only had one shot at this. If he failed to infiltrate the Benefactor’s fights, there would be no justice for Yuri’s men, and Yuri herself would continue to be in a lot of danger.

He was so out of his comfort zone. Wade would have been better at this. Or Matt. Or Natasha. Even Tony did decent staying undercover for a while when his suit was badly damaged. Peter might have been an old hat at secrets, but his entire approach to superheroing was the opposite to what he had to do now. He needed to get noticed, but he couldn’t be obvious, obnoxious, or annoying. No showboating. No trying to get everyone’s gun pointed his way. No Spider-Man.

Peter didn’t know how to do stuff like this without being Spider-Man. But he’d made a promise to Yuri, and he was trying really hard nowadays to keep his promises.

Peter hung his head, taking a deep, fortifying breath. Then he stood, straightening out his stolen clothes, and walked into the Bar with No Name.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lighting. It was still early in the night, so there weren’t that many people. His entrance drew eyes—but his ski mask? Not so much. Looking around, Peter saw he wasn’t the only one with something to hide. Chameleon was in the corner, alone and hunched over a shot glass and a very large bottle of vodka. Shellshock and Stiletto were arguing by a dartboard. Tinkerer and Shocker were sitting with three other people, playing poker.

And beyond them was Daniel Brito. The man was standing at the pool table in the back. He had two women on either side of him, visibly flirting. Brito was an attractive man, but there was more to their attention. He was wearing a lean purple vest with an open collar shirt. Tattoos marched from his wrists to his elbows. He had a thick gold watch too, which glinted in the dim lighting of the bar as he lifted his pool cue to take his shot.

Peter remembered him being taller, somehow. More energetic. And younger, obviously. Nowadays, his black hair was shot through with gray.

Brito missed and murmured something to the women. He seemed distracted by something, his gaze far away.

Peter took advantage of the timing. “Hey.” Brito’s eyes flicked over to him with zero interest. “Hear you’re recruiting for a business opportunity.”

“Oh, boo,” said one of the women. She had on a skintight, dark green dress with some sort of leathery boa around her shoulders. Her auburn hair was loose and long enough to touch her bare shoulders.

“Not in the mood for business,” Brito said. “A friend of mine just died.”

“Aw, baby,” the other woman said. “You didn’t say!” She had on a long white dress, loose around the chest with a thigh high slit up the side. Her black hair was cropped short, curling up against her cheekbones. Armed with another pool cue, she seemed to be the one playing Brito. The other woman just stood by, her arms crossed over her chest.

“I’m a man of few words, Lola,” Brito said, taking his turn again.

“That’s not my name,” _Lola_ said, giggly. The cue ball hit another with a loud clack.

But Peter caught the ball before it could go in the corner pocket. “I’m afraid I have to insist,” Peter said. “As an old friend myself.”

Brito straightened up from where he was bent over the table. Peter’s spidey sense started vibrating. While Brito’s expression remained mild, the first woman was glaring. Her “boa” lifted its head and hissed at Peter, baring inch long fangs.

She was Zelda DuBois, the Python Princess, Peter suddenly recalled. He’d clashed with her maybe twice in the last decade, but she had quite the rap sheet. She would have no problem killing him. None of the people in this bar would, and too many of them were watching him now, money exchanging hands. With his luck, he probably broke some unspoken golden rule—thou shall not touch the pool balls while in play. Peter stood there, silent, waiting.

After a beat, Brito cast a look at his posse. “Ladies, if you’d excuse us.”

Zelda huffed in annoyance but walked off, her snake looping around her torso comfortingly. Lola also surrendered, giving up her pool cue. She spun away just fast enough for Peter to see the gun strapped her thigh.

Her open, bare backed dress also flaunted a key tattoo that Peter recognized. She was from the Fortunato crime family, a notorious syndicate implicated in everything from human trafficking to loan sharking. They’d almost been wiped out in the nineties, but they were making a comeback. Brito might have not been in the mood to recruit fighters, but that hadn’t stopped him from rubbing shoulders with some of the most dangerous people in New York.

Peter dragged his attention back to his old employer, once again feeling like he was in way over his head.

Brito calmly chalked his pool cue. “An old friend wouldn’t hide his face.”

“I hid my face back then as well. You didn’t care.” Brito made a non-committal noise in his throat. Cautiously, Peter rounded the pool table, keeping his voice low. “I want in on the cage fights, Brito. You know I’m good for it.”

“Do I?” Brito sounded bored.

“Last time around, I was your main attraction.”

Brito raised his eyebrows at Peter, visibly amused at this assertion. “And? So? Where have you been for the last 10 or 15 years, hm?”

“I-” Peter concentrated on Henderson’s cover. “I’m in debt. Serious debt.”

Brito laughed dryly. “You need money? Go sell a kidney or something.” He turned his head away, freeing one hand from his stick to restack the balls. “This biz isn’t for losers, kid. It’s for people with skills. Perseverance. Persistence. And a hell of an ability to take a punch. Let me do one last kind thing for you. As an old friend… _beat it_.”

Brito turned his head, about to call out to one of his companions to start a new game. Peter grabbed his pool cue before a sound could get out. “I’ll have to ask you to reconsider,” he said urgently.

He had about a half second to feel self-conscious. His borrowed sleeve tore just a bit with that motion, baring his wrists. Better his arms than his pants, he figured. All he was exposing with this was his deactivated web shooters. To the uninitiated, said web shooters looked like just a pair of metal wristbands. The tear was more obvious and more painful to Peter, who had grown up with few funds for extra clothes and had bullied his way into Ben’s hand-me-downs by the time he was 11.

But all of those feelings were suddenly overshadowed by Brito and his reaction. In the second Peter had taken to grab him, the man transformed from mildly annoyed to dangerously livid.

Spidey sense screaming, Peter dodged backwards before he knew what was happening, losing a button in the process. Brito had a knife and a heated, focused expression. They circled each other briefly—a mistake Peter had been cleverly maneuvered into, Peter realized when Brito suddenly charged Peter.

Peter had nowhere to go with a pool table at his back, not without looking too much like his alter ego. He widened his stance, sinking into his heels. He caught Brito instead of dodging away, one hand on the man’s wrist and the other on the man’s shoulder.

Teeth gritted, Brito threw all of his weight behind the knife aimed for Peter’s shoulder. They stood there, suspended like that for a moment. Then, holding on to Brito’s wrist, Peter got under him, the knife missing his mask by inches as Brito suddenly had nothing to lean into. Using the grip he still had, Peter twisted Brito’s arm behind his back and shoved him into the pool table face first.

Then he quickly grabbed Brito’s elbow, arresting his ability to reach for another knife.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Peter said urgently. This was it. Barely ten minutes in and he’d already blown it.

Brito’s whole body tensed, like he was going kick off the pool table and start round two of this scuffle. It was what Peter would have done. Then he suddenly—weirdly—inhaled.

Then he relaxed into Peter’s grip, melting down to his feet like Jell-o. “Okay,” Brito said quietly. “Okay. Lighten up the grip a bit, hotshot.” Wary, Peter did just that, backing up several steps in the process. Brito stood, shrugging his vest back in place. Then he turned, expression mild again. “Memory’s coming back to me now. What’s your name again, kid?”

“…Petrelli,” Peter said cautiously. Was this a test?

“Petrelli,” Brito echoed slowly with an unholy grin. His eyes lit up.

Peter’s heart was still pounding, but his spidey sense was mute, pacified by Brito’s easy retreat. But something about the look on Brito’s face made Peter worried that maybe his old employer remembered that his last operation failed because an Avenger crashed the party while looking for a minor in disguise. Brito wasn’t the kind of man who cooled his heels in prison without obsessing over which one of his fighters had the voice of a man who’d barely skated past puberty.

Peter looped his thumbs into his waistband. “Though you called me the Spider,” he said quickly. 

Brito snorted, amused. “Spider, huh? My new boss won’t like that.”

“Oh? Arachnophobe?”

“Something like that.” Brito grinned briefly, sharply, at Peter, then wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Still, Peter’s spidey sense was silent. “Come on, kid. You made your point.” He started guiding Peter towards the door. “You know me, I like gambling on what I know. But let’s rebrand you into something else.”

Peter scanned the bar quickly, noticing a few disappointed faces. He’d been an unexpected bit of entertainment for them all, but not to the level they wanted. Zelda’s python lifted its head and hissed at Peter for one last time before he and Brito exited the building.

Letting go of Peter, Brito walked around the corner. Peter followed, watching as Brito raised a hand. A man was leaning against a black SUV with tinted windows, reading a newspaper. “Gotta a live one, Mitch,” Brito said cheerfully.

“Had money on you stabbing someone tonight,” Mitch said, looking up. He had a weathered, bearded face, pale skin, and very clear blue eyes. Noticing Peter, he pushed away from the SUV, towering over Peter and Brito both. “Taking him to Alfie’s?”

“No. Dominguez brothers.” Mitch sent Brito a dubious look. Without looking, Brito reached back and patted Peter’s chest. “Petrelli here is a very serious investment!”

Mitch rolled his eyes and got into the driver’s side of the vehicle. Brito, on the other hand, opened up the back and made a sweeping, welcoming motion to Peter so he could climb in first. Slowly, Peter did just that, noting the privacy window, the first aid kit, and the small cache of guns in the back. There was no way in hell this level of tint on the windows was legal.

Brito got in his seat, closing the door behind him. He reached out, tapping a button to close the privacy window. “Let’s talk business.” The window shut with a quiet thud.

Peter tensed, waiting. He remembered being young and bored, sitting by Brito’s knee as he chattered a mile a minute about the future, smoking like a chimney. Brito nowadays was a bit more muted. Even his scent was more bearable. Peter could pick up a bit of the residual smoke from the bar, but nothing like the stinky cloud he used to travel in.

Still, Brito took out a lighter, fiddling with it. “I won’t ask you why you’re doing this. I know you’re just going to lie to me,” Brito said with certainty.

Peter opened his mouth, anxious and ready to deny it. Then he realized he couldn’t, not without drawing even more attention to his motives. Besides, Brito was used to Peter lying to him. Why stop now, especially if Brito was willing to accept it?

At the lack of response, Brito snorted, smiling faintly. He shook his head and said soberly, “You’re biting off more than you can chew, kid. The worst you had to worry about before was me kicking your ass. Now, I’m just a small fish in a big sea.” Brito wrapped an arm around the back of the seat, swiveling to face Peter. His bent knee nudged Peter’s thigh. “But you stick by me, and everything will be fine. If you do that, I’ll show you everything that you’re so eager to see.”

He punctuated this with a concerning, knowing smirk. Swallowing, Peter just nodded. Then he looked out the window.

The SUV started to move. He was in.

Now all he had to worry about was getting away long enough to let Yuri know.

-

Yuri dumped the stolen car in an alley. She left the keys in the ignition. The way crime was heading this week, it would be stolen again within an hour. With any luck, this thief would help draw attention away from her. She didn’t care what happened when the bad guys caught up with the thief. She had zero sympathy for thieves.

Tugging self-consciously on the blond wig she had borrowed from one of her neighbors, she kept her head down and ducked into the subway. She got on the nearest line. Then, waiting a couple of stops, she got off and stepped on another. She did this five more times, and she kept her eyes moving. It was easier to assume someone was always behind her.

She got off one more time and shed the wig and her borrowed winter coat in the bathroom, shoving on the ball cap she had wadded in her pocket. Then she headed back up to the street, shivering in the cold. If it was a little warmer, she wouldn’t have regretted the loss of that coat so much, but she forged on, marching down the street with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

But when the temperature became too much, she started looking for a place to stay the night that was secure and out of sight.

After another twenty minutes, she came across a rundown church almost indistinguishable from the surrounding behind it. Debating with herself, she made a decision and walked in the front doors.

“You just missed mass, my child,” a man said, picking up a dropped brochure. He had curly brown hair and a pair of thin glasses lingering on the tip of his nose. He looked up absently, eyes falling on her. He must have realized he didn’t recognize her because he stood up immediately, as if embarrassed. “Can I help you? My name is Father O’Brien.” He reached out a hand for her to shake. “You look lost.”

Yuri didn’t repeat the gesture, keeping her hands tucked under her elbows. “I’m not one of your flock, Father.”

O’Brien’s hand fell. He didn’t seem offended. “That doesn’t make you any less one of God’s children.”

“I need to lay low here for a while,” Yuri said, watching him.

A hard glint entered his eyes. “Sanctuary is one of the many services we offer,” he said slickly, “for, say, a donation in the name of the Lord…”

Yuri smirked. She didn’t judge him for the tactics he took to keep an old church open in such a rough neighborhood. If she was in his shoes, she’d wheeling and dealing all over the place too. While in some disarray, the bones of the building were good, likely prewar. It was a nice space he inherited. But it also occupied prime real estate, and it served the poor. She was surprised it hadn’t been bulldozed down already by force.

Still, she pulled her badge on him. “Captain Watanabe, NYPD.”

“Oh,” the priest said, sounding disappointed. Then he tensed. “Before you say anything, Captain, I have to warn that things told to me in confession are strictly off-limits-”

Yuri rolled her eyes. “I’m not interested in your secrets. Only the fact that you can keep them.” She walked past him, scrutinizing the location. High ceilings, stained glass, and a crowd of pews. It looked like the church in Home Alone, just less rich. “I need to lay low, and this place looks promising. All I need you to keep your mouth shut.

“I understand,” he said faintly. When she walked down the center of the pews, he followed. “What do you see when you look around this place, Captain?”

“Four sturdy walls, two defendable exits, and acoustics that make it extremely difficult to sneak up on people.” She pointed off into the corner. “What’s the door over there for?”

“Is that the only worth you see in this place? Temporary sanctuary?” O’Brien asked, curious. “Do you have faith in anything, Captain?”

“Sure. Truth, justice, and the American way,” she said dryly. “The door, Father.”

“It’s a private chapel,” O’Brien said shortly. When she looked over her shoulder to raise an eyebrow at him, he ducked his head a little and shuffled past her, reaching for a ring of keys. “I’ll show you.”

She followed him this time as he led the way. He unlocked the door noisily and flipped on the lights, revealing a much, much smaller twin of the room they had just left. There were only three rows of pews, and one way in and one way out. Even better. 

Nodding, Yuri faced the priest. “Great. I’m using this.” Dropping the friendliness, she got in O’Brien’s face, looming at him, intimidating. “And If you tell anyone I’m here, you will be interfering with a criminal investigation, and you’ll be put away for a long, long time. Do you understand?”

O’Brien blanched, lifting both hands up in surrender. “I- yes, I understand. I’ll tell everyone that the small chapel is under construction.” He sagged slightly, looking annoyed. “Again.” He shook himself out of it, trying to smile at her. “Mass is at seven tomorrow morning, if you would like to join. Peace be with you, Captain.”

Yuri watched him leave the chapel. When he closed the door behind him, she shot a distrusting eye up and down the spaces between the pews. She paced. She rubbed her forehead. She paced some more. She even moved the podium in front of the door. It was cracked down the middle, and she was afraid she might break it further, but it held strong.

Exhausted, she turned off the light and sat down on the stage. The few stained glass windows in the space were small and sparse, but just high enough to catch the moon and light up some of the chapel beneath them. It was warm and quiet, and, for the first time all day, Yuri could stop and think.

She looked out at the chapel. She could barely believe everything that had happened to get her here. She was raised an atheist, and some pretty architecture wasn’t going to change that. Still, she felt the power of the space. She felt small. And watched, somehow. Even if the tall ceilings lacked cameras. But she didn’t pretend there was anyone looking out for her. She knew better than that.

Her men would have disagreed, probably. Stanley was practicing Lutheran and took it pretty seriously. He was always inviting her to come to his church, even for social gatherings. On the other hand, Henderson liked to joke he was a failed Catholic, a perennial disappointment to his Irish grandmother. But that hadn’t quite stopped him from muttering prayers under his breath when they were in a dangerous situation. And, to round out the trio, Ramirez didn’t like to talk about religion at work. But his home office was littered with books on Taoism and Shintoism. He believed there was more to life, that there was something left still worth exploring.

And suddenly, the weight of her grief felt enormous.

Shoving back a sobbing breath, Yuri hurled herself up to her feet and started walking the perimeter of the chapel in the darkness. On her third pass, the burning feeling behind her eyes finally ceased. On her fifth, she could breathe normally again.

On her sixth, she stopped by the votive rack. Matches invited her to light a candle, so she did. The small light lit up some saint or figure she didn’t know, dancing hopefully in the darkness.

Yuri wasn’t like her doomed golden trio. She had faith in what she could see, touch, taste, and feel. Moreover, she had faith in the justice system. Faith in herself. Faith in Spider-Man.

Or did she?

No. The only person she had faith in was _herself_. And that was why she was in this position. And why _Spider-Man_ himself was in this position.

Peter Parker. What an ordinary name for such an extraordinary individual. She’d hurled that individual into a veritable den of snakes, unarmed and unwary. She’d tried to convince herself that Spider-Man had years of experience being undercover—for what was a superhero persona but a flashy cover?

But she was wrong. This was so different. Peter had never had to rub shoulders with the worst of the world and convince them he was the same. Look at his reaction to the fire she’d started. His first instinct was always to protect.

And yet, he was her only hope of finishing this the right way. The just way. Because if he failed, well…

With his last hours on early, Ricky delivered her a trunk full of C4, and she knew how to use it. She also knew every property and bit of land that the Benefactor had purchased through shell companies. Any one of them could be the Benefactor’s hidey-hole. At that point, it was just process of elimination… wasn’t it?

Yuri sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She didn’t want to do that. Not really. It was her last resort for a reason. And until such time she had to use it, the person she had to put her faith in was Spider-Man. She had to hope he saw this through.

Yuri pulled Peter’s handmade envelopes out of her pocket, flipping them over with a frown.

But Peter was so trusting. Imagine wanting to tell what was happening to one of the leading Avengers, to some random civilians. To _Deadpool_ , of all people.

No, if this was going to work, they needed to keep this lean. Tight. The only people who could be in the know were the two of them.

Regretful—but resolute—Yuri shook her head. “Sorry, Spidey.” She pinched the first one between her fingers and let the flames lick the letter until it was nothing but ash.


	8. Chapter 8

“He’s not dead,” Danny said out of nowhere. “I’d have felt it. I think.”

Jessica didn’t even lift her head from where it was cushioned by her palm. She continued drawing circles in the condensation left by her cup. “Oh, is that ancient power of K’un Lun?”

Danny paused in the middle of the drink he was making, squinting at her. “Why does it always sound like you’re making of me when you say that?”

“There’s a lot to make fun of,” Jessica said listlessly. Making a grumpy noise, Danny finished the drink, clapped it down on the bar, and slid it to his waiting customer.

Jessica had been told to go home. Or, more accurately, take a break. Imagine being told by the Hulk’s humansona that you needed to “relax” before you “broke something”. Jessica was fine! It was Reed who was bent out of shape—literally. He hadn’t appreciated her theories about Yuri Watanabe and had patronizingly started lecturing her about the dangers of denial—her! Of all people! Like she didn’t rely just as much on fact as he did, but in a different field.

Anyway, he didn’t get to dad her just because he had a kid now. That had happened so recently; the jury was still out on if he was a good one. In fact, there was only one of those assholes she’d allow to dad her, and that was Scott Lang. Jessica had met Cassie, so she knew for certain that Ant- Man was a phenomenal dad. Clint was too, allegedly, but he regularly disavowed any knowledge of having a family, despite the fact that his wife sent them all a holiday card last year. No dad privileges there, Jessica decided. You didn’t get to dad people when you pretended you weren’t a dad.

…Maybe she was a little drunk. She looked into her class, scrutinizing the ice.

Just then, the door to the bar crashed open. A stranger in a worn beanie and scarf marched through the opening. He was an old man, and his clothes looked like something you’d pull out of a dumpster. He stopped, casting an eye across the bar’s occupants, then pumped the shotgun in his hands once. “Clear out or you’ll get it.”

The patrons eyed the man for a moment, gauging his intentions before deciding to comply. They did so slowly and without hurry. One woman even threw back the rest of her whiskey in one go, teetering past the stranger unsteadily. Even so, it didn’t take long for the bar to empty.

“Huh,” Danny said, idly cleaning a glass.

“Huh,” Jessica agreed from her perch.

“We’ve never been robbed before.”

“Weird.” Jessica turned to Danny. “I blame the bartender. The last one was better. Hotter.”

“Fuck you,” Danny said evenly, putting the glass down. He turned his attention to the gunman. “Can I help you?” Jessica bared her teeth at that. It was such a Danny move, being more polite to the man trying to rob them than Jessica, his longtime and loyal customer. Service these days sucked.

After a moment of hesitation, the stranger came closer. “You’re not the bullet proof bartender,” he realized out loud, squinting at Danny.

Danny shrugged. “You’re not the only one disappointed about that.”

Now that he came closer, Jessica could see his face better. The man was visibly weathered. His thinning hair and his thick beard leaned more towards gray than black. His eyes were a lighter shade of that, the color of a bright—but overcast—day. Despite his offensive first move, there was nothing particularly menacing about their would-be robber.

In fact, the first thing he did when he’d shuffled close enough to the bar was to set the shotgun on its surface. It seemed strangely like a gesture of good faith, especially coming from someone here to rob them.

“Sorry about scaring away your customers,” the stranger said. “It’s unloaded, if that helps.”

She gave him kudos for his honesty. But there was no way in hell he was getting the contents of Luke’s register with that attitude.

Danny seemed to agree, relaxing a little. “…It’s cool,” he offered up. “They always come back.”

“So who are you?” Jessica asked bluntly.

“The name’s Karl,” said the old man, looking at her. “I have information for the Defenders. That is what you are, right?”

He wasn’t here to rob them after all. What a way to secure a private audience. She sat up straighter. “Go on.”

“I tried to warn Spider-Man, but the Benefactor got to him too fast.”

Well, hell. Weren’t those some magic words?

Jessica locked up the front door of the bar, hanging a sign advising anyone who was concerned that the police were not needed. She pulled down the blinds, then turned off the main lights, leaving only the accent lights around the bar on. It was clear to all from the street that they were not accepting any more guests tonight. But there was more than enough light to continue their conversation.

Jessica went back to the bar. Karl had taken up her seat. Danny had made him a cup of water as well as a cup of coffee. At the sound of Karl’s gurgling stomach, Danny had also ducked in the back of the bar and warmed up some of their leftover Chinese food for him. While Karl dug a hole in her fried rice, Jessica knocked back the rest of her drink. She rounded the ledge of the bar to stand shoulder to shoulder with Danny, facing their unusual guest.

It didn’t take long for Karl to start talking.

“I’m a felon. I’ve been a career criminal since I was 12. Got my hand slapped trying to rob a place recently, but they let me out on my own reconnaissance. Not exactly what you’d want to hear from a judge in the middle of winter when you have no place to stay lined up.” Karl stabbed deeper into the rice, fishing out some buried noodles. “But I was still in jail for a few days, and I overheard some things I thought you should know.”

Jessica watched him silently, trying to gauge the trustworthiness of this source. Luke had a lot of friends in a lot of different life circumstances, but Karl was probably not one of them. Karl would have used his name, for starters. He’d been blunt about his criminal background—she respected that. He’d name dropped Spidey, but anyone with two brain cells knew nowadays that doing that was bound to get their attention.

Danny seemed to be on the same page. “Why share it with us? Surely it won’t benefit you if it got back to the wrong people that you snitched.”

Karl huffed out a withering laugh. “Trust me, I’ve thought of that.” His expression sobered. “I’m not fond of you vigilante types. But Spidey was _decent_. Real quick to be kind, no matter whose cookie jar he caught you in.” He dropped his fork, leaning back on his stool. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Got a heart attack once, trying to get into this joint on 45th street. My crew bolted, left me to die in the rain. Worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” Karl suddenly grinned, revealing slightly crooked teeth and two gaps. “Spidey, though, he’d come swinging in to stop us. But he stayed for _me_. Picked up my ass out of the rain and got me someplace warm. Kept up CPR until the ambulance arrived. Kept me talking. Kept me sane. Kept on _joking_. He…” Karl trailed off, his grin fading. “He didn’t have to do that. _Nobody_ had to do that. I was asking for it. Death, I mean, and he just…”

Karl stopped. Then he covered his eyes with his hand, planting his elbow on the bar. He was silent for a full minute, caught up in his own thoughts.

“…so I owe him, you know?” Karl said finally. “Just a little.”

Jessica paused. Then she leaned across the counter. “Tell me more.”

Karl nodded, dropping his hand. His eyes were sharp and clear. “The Benefactor has been a real celebrity in certain circles for quite a few months now. Those in the know have kept things hush- hush, but a lot of people have been saying the Benefactor is building up to something bigger, something better.”

“Any idea why he’s called the Benefactor?” Danny asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, he sure as shit didn’t name himself that. I suspect he got the name from the business he’s been dealing. He’s hiring people left and right—felons especially. He's also buying up shit loads of property. Whoever he is, he's fucking loaded.” Karl sighed. “Lots of guys were real excited about him and the things he was doing. Me, I didn’t dip my toes in any of it. Hard to trust a guy you’ve never seen. But when I got arrested again, criminals weren’t just excited. They were giddy. Fucking gloating.”

“Why?” Jessica asked.

“Because the Benefactor wasn’t just hot air and talk,” Karl said bluntly. “A bunch of guys got let out of Ryker’s after the riots. Some sort of bait and switch with so-called medical emergencies. No one’s reported it because the records show that they’re still in prison.”

“Well, that’s not good,” Danny commented.

“Yeah, no shit,” Karl said. “It’s worse than that, though. They’re saying the Benefactor’s got the hospitals and the prison in his pocket. The cops too, if the giddiest rumors are right. And if _that_ wasn’t bad enough, they said that the Benefactor was behind Spidey’s death. That he clipped the wings of New York City’s favorite superhero. That it was just the start of his grand master plan, and soon the Benefactor was gonna be in charge of the whole damn city. Not the mayor, not the cops, and sure as hell no freaks.” Karl paused, then inclined his head towards Danny and Jessica. “No offense intended.”

“That’s ambitious,” Jessica said, hating this Benefactor already.

“But not entirely impossible,” Danny said.

He was right. The Maggia had a stranglehold over the city for decades. More recently, the Hand had made a stab at it as well. Several major crime families still maintained control over certain areas of the city. If they had more resources, they would immediately jump at the opportunity of taking over more territory. Then, of course, there was Kingpin. There was a point in his reign where not a single crime was done in Hell’s Kitchen and the surrounding areas without his express say-so.

“Now me. I don’t really care what you all do with this information,” Karl said, shaking Jessica from her thoughts. “I’m the type to keep my head down and stay away from the commotion. Y’all are the type to run towards it.” His weathered face tightened. “But Spidey… Spidey deserved better. And that’s all I’m gonna say.”

-

Tony jerked awake, then jerked again at the feeling of a cool hand on his face.

Pepper frowned down at him. She was upside down, weirdly. Did she have superpowers she hadn’t told him about?

Oh. No. He was just on the floor. No superpowers there. Just a very capable woman and a very stupid man. Tony groaned, in pain. Light was a horrible invention. Fuck you, Thomas Edison.

“This is the worst I’ve seen you in quite some time,” she said, moving hair away from his face. His head throbbed, even under that gentle touch. “I thought you were trying to prove Peter is still alive. So why the drinking?”

Miserable, Tony didn’t answer immediately. As soon as he’d found out about Peter, he’d stupidly flown off to check on May and Ben Parker, thinking they might know more. Only Tony really stepped in it then. They hadn’t heard the news yet, and in his rush to explain, it sounded more and more like Peter was actually dead.

Ben had broken down, weeping over the loss of the nephew he saw as his own son. May’s reaction had been distant, quieter. In fact, Tony had questioned if May understood what was going on at all. All she would ask him was “Where’s Wade?”

Wade. Peter’s tenacious significant other. AKA probably the only other person in the world right now he could call an ally in Team Peter’s Alive.

Tony wasn’t about to call him in for a pow-wow. Wade was MIA, hunting down any clues he could find. He’d cut off all contact with the Avengers. He even cut out the tracker they’d planted in his arm that one time he got lost in Bolivia.

Without his usual partner in crime, Clint was doing an admirable job tracking Wade throughout the city and was currently holding a 75% accuracy rate—that is, if Wade’s friend was legit. They were assuming a lot from the annoyed and grudgingly apologetic updates from the black hat hacker only known as The Weasel. Getting ahead of him, catching him in the act, and stopping him were major goals of the Avengers at the moment. Steve (and Barnes) hauled ass every time, but Wade was always one step ahead.

But Tony didn’t give two hoots about Wade. He wanted Peter. And Steve, recognizing this major difference of opinion, let Tony split off on his own without a peep.

Which was probably his first mistake. Steve wouldn’t have approached a missing teammate’s family first, not without more cause. Not without a better plan.

So after royally upsetting some of the nicest people in New York, Tony went back to the old Avengers Tower and tried to be more strategic like Steve. He started with the dossiers he’d already mocked up. Peter had enough enemies to fill a phone book, and it would take an exceptionally powerful AI to be able to pin all of their last known locations to a map to start narrowing them.

Fortunately, Tony knew just the AI to tap. FRIDAY got started immediately, pulling up everything from social media posts to court documents to gauge locations. While a good chunk of Peter’s enemies were out of the state or in prison, too many of them were located within the city itself. Some of them were in Manhattan. Others were in different boroughs—and had stayed there for a good chunk of time. How was Tony supposed to start narrowing things down?

Tony had groused about this out loud, and so it was FRIDAY who reminded Tony that Peter had an SI phone.

At this piece of data, Tony immediately dropped the dossier idea, scrambling to a different computer interface. He had a piss poor time trying to track Spider-Man last year, and it took the work of almost ten months to convince Peter to trust him and accept the phone. Peter had seemed well aware of what repercussions came from accepting a piece of hardware from Tony, and Tony swore up and down to himself he would never abuse it.

Until now.

It took him about five minutes to get into Peter’s records and start going over his stored GPS data for the day.

Peter had taken a normal route to work, likely jumping on the subway. Once parked in Oscorp, his location barely moved for hours until about 1. His location moved slightly then crossing a couple blocks at normal speed.

And then the location jumped in a weird—and fast—zigzagging pattern across Manhattan that looked nothing like his usual patrol routes.

Then the blip that made up his location dropped off the map, showing nothing.

At least, not for another few hours. It popped up suddenly in the same place it disappeared before taking a tight route over city streets. Then it backtracked, devolving in an easy-to-predict, repetitive pattern of movement. Peter had to be patrolling—though damn him for not answering any of his calls.

Elated—and about ready to buy Ben Parker a whole damn house to make up for the trauma Tony put him through—Tony sent Sam and Wanda over to intercept Peter.

But they came back too quickly, nothing to show for it but a badly broken SI phone.

Tony hadn’t picked up Peter patrolling. He’d picked up the route of a trash truck.

So Tony cracked open the liquor cabinet and tried to drown himself. That was a couple of hours ago.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Pepper said patiently.

“Sorry. It’s a special occasion,” Tony rasped, sitting up. She kindly handed him a water bottle. He drank the whole thing in one go and felt a little more human for it. “Why are you down here? Besides having to watch me turn in my AA coin.”

Even before Peter disappeared, Tony had parked himself in this building a lot, trying to undo the damage Norman had done to it while it laid vacant. Now that the place was fixed, Tony had seen promise in the space. The Avengers had moved upstate, sure. The Compound fit their needs too well for them to cram back into the tower. But there was no reason why the tower couldn’t be used by others. He’d had a vague idea of the building becoming a meeting place for more than just the Avengers. A safe haven. A United Nations of superheroes, maybe.

Anyway, Pepper had tolerated his brainstorming and tinkering. After a few months of it, she even moved back into the penthouse, only going home to their real place when Tony himself dropped a wrench and dragged his ass back. She said it was a nice change of pace, like an extended sleepover.

All Tony knew was how exceedingly lucky he was to be with someone so understanding. 

Even now, having to deal with a grouchy and hungover Tony, all she did was clap her knees twice and stand. “As entertaining as that is, you have visitors.”

Tony sank backwards, lounging on his elbow. “Ugh. Don’t care.”

“You should care,” Pepper said, looking up at his work and away from him. The holographic displays turned her freckled face blue. “They didn’t come in through the front door. They came in through the roof.”

Tony tensed. Then he immediately pushed himself to his feet. “Friendlies?” he asked sharply, catching the edge of a table.

Pepper looked over her shoulder. “Read the room, Iron Man,” she said, a tiny bit exasperated.

So Tony did. Pepper was still wearing her pjs. She was barefoot and tired. She was not wearing the suit, or even the smart blazer she wore when she was about to ruin somebody’s whole career; It was murder red, and he fucking adored it.

She left, and he followed after her obediently, taking the elevator up to the penthouse.

The sound of the elevator opening had the two guests jumping a bit like children caught goofing off while the teacher was out. Tony was half-smiling already. Then he looked at them—really looked at them—and stopped.

Even if they were designed differently, seeing spider symbols on spandex hybrid suits did funny things to his brain. He promptly wanted to go back to his lab and drain the remainder of his liquor cabinet.

But both of them were looking at Tony with expectation. So was Pepper, and when he didn’t say anything, she started them off. “Tony, say hi to your guests. Guests, this is Tony.”

All this made Tony think of, was the first time he met Spider-Man—really met him. Peter had been awkward and grumpy, but he didn’t fail to throw his shoulders back, trying to look taller than he was. He even made a stab at deepening his voice a bit, which didn’t pair well with his voice inducer at the time.

These people—these kids—were just the same. Antsy, nervous, and looking for any reason to run. It wasn’t their fault they shared a theme with Tony’s favorite superhero.

So Tony tried to smile. It came out very tight. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he said, pulling away from Pepper. He looked them both up and down, circling them once. “Let me guess…. Spider-Woman and Spider-Kid?”

“Not even close,” said Spider-Kid, sounding annoyed.

“Excuse me. Whippersnappers these days with their secret identities.”

“She’s Silk,” Spider-Kid said. “And I’m Spider-Man.”

“Right, kid. Love the colors, though. Very… edgy.” Actually, the coloring _was_ great. Much better than Peter’s flashy red and blues. Peter was due for a redesign. “Sure you’re good enough to use a spider theme here in New York City? No judgements here, but Spider-Man’s rogue gallery expects a five-star level of service.”

“We’re good enough to step in as him without any of _you_ knowing,” said the girl.

Tony had to admit it. The hangover stood in the way of him understanding the implications of that for a bit. And, when he did, his heart fell harder than it did when he figured out the trash route. Tony abruptly turned away from the visitors, running a rough hand through his hair.

Peter was a chaotic, good-natured mess of a human being. He was also a conniving little shit who reminded Tony a little too much of… well, _Tony_. Peter’d been baiting him with the identities of the last two members of the Spidey Clone Army for an entire year. And for the last two members of the Spidey Clone Army to come on their own, revealing themselves without any heads up made Tony think that maybe Peter wasn’t around to bait him anymore.

And that was crushing.

“We want to help find out who killed Spider-Man,” continued the girl. “And we think we know where to start.”

This wasn’t supposed to be a world where Peter was dead. Tony was supposed to die first. Peter was supposed to inherit the world. That was the way these things went.

Tony didn’t want to do this. He wanted to be anywhere else but here.

He gave himself five seconds to grieve, to grit his teeth over the unfairness of the world.

Then he turned around. “Alright,” he said. “Silk, was it? Lay it on me.”

But Spider-Kid was the one who spoke up. “The last person Spider-Man was investigating was someone named the Benefactor. You know him?”

“I don’t, but give me an hour and I’ll be able to coauthor his biography.” Tony glanced up. “FRIDAY, you know what to do.” Tony turned away. “Anyone want a burger? My treat.”

This was going to be a long night.

\- 

Peter never thought he’d be the type to obsess over a phone, but here he was. Obsessed.

He lamented the loss of the public good that was phone booths. He stared unflinchingly at a man outside taking a call. The squat landline phone in the Dominguez brothers’ bookstore seemed like a precious artifact straight out of Asgard. And when the previous customer walked past Peter, eyes briefly skating over Peter’s ski mask, Peter almost shoved his hand in the man’s pocket, desperately hoping his sticky fingers landed on a cell with decent reception.

He didn’t, though. He’d never pickpocketed a man in his life, but damn. Now he was feeling like he knew why others did.

Peter would need to get creative if he was ever going to update Yuri. At least Brito had been busy, following through with his promise—or threat?—to invest in Peter. Whatever that meant.

Also, Peter didn’t want to assume, but he was about 90% sure that the Domiquez brothers were neither related nor a Domiguez. The first brother Peter dealt with a squat redhead with a thick Irish accent. The other was a tall, thin black man at least 30 years his senior. They operated out of the back of a bookstore, having converted it into a makeshift armory. There was a police station maybe ten minutes away by food too. It was wild.

Peter’s spidey sense was buzzing just at the sight of so much live ammo, but Brito pushed him along, encouraging him to explore.

“Choose some equipment,” Brito said casually, watching him go. After a beat, he followed Peter, hands in his pockets.

Peter didn’t like that. He scurried and found himself near the back, surrounded by racks of different pieces of clothing—all armored, he realized, sliding his fingers along a vest. Remembering Brito’s order, he grabbed some things at random.

But Brito almost immediately stopped him. “Primary colors? Really? What are you, a cartoon character?”

“Deadpool wears red,” Peter said densely. Then, panicking, he continued. “And Magneto wears purple. And the last time Doc Ock rolled through town, I could have _sworn_ he was wearing yellow-”

“Black, Petrelli,” Brito said in a long-suffering tone. “Or gray, if you have to test my patience.” Brito made a gesture over Peter’s shoulder at one of the brothers. The racks were moved around to reveal pieces that were decidedly more monochromatic.

Peter pinched at the closest material in a curious way. “…I usually prefer my latex catsuit to have a little more give,” Peter confided in the shorter of the two brothers.

He was ignored. That was okay. Peter was used to being ignored.

Tense and too aware of Brito standing behind his back, Peter kept the man in his peripheral. He pulled things at random—black pants, black boots, fingerless gloves. A long sleeve gray camo shirt with a hood. He passed, then doubled backed and grabbed a short-sleeved shirt to go under it. It felt like the material he’d been testing to resist getting stabbed. He rubbed it between two fingers thoughtfully. Then he grabbed a vest, mostly because he thought it was neat. _Pockets._

As Peter chose items, Brito sighed or rolled his eyes at every choice. But it wasn’t until Peter walked to the back wall and reached for another ski mask did he say, “Come on, you’re embarrassing me.”

If anyone should be embarrassed, it was the Dominguez brothers. What kind of people—outside the find purveyors of Halloween-themed goods—had such a wide selection of masks for sale? And Peter sincerely meant wide. The masks ranged from Noh masks and grinning demons to Powerpuff Girls and unicorn heads. He understood the scarier masks and the unsettling ones, of course, but My Little Pony? What kind of mercenary or criminal worth his salt came into a place like this and said, sir, can I please have a-

Ah. Right. Wade.

This was going to be hard.

Brito signed heavily again, rubbing the back of his head vigorously. “Get your mask and get changed. We’re leaving in ten.” He then miraculously left Peter to it, wandering back to talk to the other Dominguez brother. He talked quickly in the short bursts and deal makings Peter had come to expect from him, working out payment and other purchases. Even with his silver tongue, the quoted prices made Peter cringe.

The mask, apparently, was being given to Brito for free. All Peter needed to do was choose.

It took Peter another five minutes to make his decision, and, after he made it, he looked left and right, then darted into a rack. Not feeling any eyes on him, he changed quickly, dropping his stolen clothes to the floor. New mask securely on his face, he stepped out of the rack, shrugging the new clothes down. He shoved his feet into the boots, then made his way to the closest mirror.

He stopped, staring at himself. He pulled the hood over his head slowly, trying to make sense of the image in front of him.

Peter looked… different. Bulky. Dangerous. _Scary_. Not the kind of guy you’d want to see at the end of an alley. Nothing like the look he usually went for.

And the mask cinched it. That grinning skull loomed under the darkness of his hood, and Peter was struck about how fitting it was, for Spider-Man to wear a symbol of death while the public went on assuming that he was no longer with the living.

Brito came back to him, debts settled and hands full. Looking in the mirror himself, Brito whistled. “Now that looks like serious bodyguard material.”

“…Thanks, it’s Kevlar.”

Brito smacked him upside the head for that. “Don’t be obtuse. Turn around.”

Peter did obediently, making a face when Brito started roughly tucking knives in Peter’s vest. “I don’t use those.”

Brito eyed him judgmentally. He kept arming Peter. “You’d rather have a gun, hot shot?”

“No,” Peter said petulantly. At least knives were functional. They could slice open a package. Cut an apple. Clean under his fingernails. A gun did nothing but kill people.

Satisfied, Brito patted the side of Peter’s mask twice, making the hard-exterior rattle. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Brito called out a casual farewell to the brothers, pushing his way back to the bookstore. Peter self-consciously tugged the hood down over his mask—why couldn’t they have exited through the back? If Peter was a shady arms dealer a hop, skip, and a jump away from the cops, he would have made sure his customers were more discrete. Alas, Peter was a vigilante with a heroic streak, not a criminal. Or a businessman, for that matter.

They exited out of the bookstore with little fanfare and walked back to the car. Mitch pushed away from the SUV, trying to look less interested than he was. He looked reluctantly impressed, but Peter guessed anything was an improvement from badly fitting clothes and a skim ask that screamed “arrest me, I’m a robber.”

Peter climbed in the SUV on his side. He waited until Brito came in the other side before saying, “At what point do I get to go home?”

Brito paused, then closed the door behind him. Mitch looked back in the mirror, eyes narrowed. Brito pointedly slid the privacy window shut. Then he leaned back, bracing an arm against the back of the seat. He pulled out a lighter with his free hand, flicking it open and closed. “You’re part of the traveling circus now,” he said mildly, eyes on the lighter. “Where we go, you go. It’s a three month commitment. Tough it out, you’ll get 150,000 in cash. Should handle all of your debts, right?” Brito flicked the lighter closed one more time. “Can’t tough it out? Save us both some angst and leave now.”

Peter looked down at his gloves, frowning. They had rounded metal disks over his knuckles—like Peter needed more reasons to hold back his strength. They were nice, though. Well stitched and warm without being stifling. “I imagine the gear’s coming out of my pay?”

It was Gang 101. Yuri made him sit in on a training once. He’d complained the whole time, saying all he had to do was punch the gang members. He didn’t have to _understand_ then. In the end, though, he’d been fascinated by the interpersonal dynamics.

And this exact scenario slid right into that piece of advice he failed to follow: never accept a gift or favor from someone who may be in a gang, especially an extremely generous one. They could demand payment for it at any time. Which meant that if Peter genuinely wanted to leave, Brito might let him. For a price.

The price of his heavily marked up gear.

But Brito was already shaking his head. “No, not this time. Consider it as a gift. From an old friend.” They hit a bump. Brito looked out the window, though Peter didn’t know why. The window was so heavily tinted, it might as well have been a metal wall. He was worlds away from the morose, dismissive man forcing himself through a game of pool. He seemed relaxed. Friendly. At the same time, he was so enigmatic, Peter’s hackles were raised, even as his spidey sense failed to make a peep.

Peter wondered who died.

“You said bodyguard,” Peter said after a few minutes of silence. “I didn’t sign up for that.”

Brito snorted. “Relax, big guy. I’ll let you rough up some people.” When Peter didn’t respond, Brito dragged his attention back over to him. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Look, kid, in the grand scheme of things, there’s normal people… and then there’s you.”

Peter guessed it reflected on the kinds of conversations he normally had when he immediately assumed that was an insult. “And what am I, exactly.”

Brito shifted to face him. He wasn’t wearing a seat belt, the mom in Peter warned. Tsk tsk.

“An extremely valuable asset I do not intend to throw away,” Brito said seriously. Then he lifted a shoulder. “And possibly some entertainment if the entertainment is too boring.” He poked Peter’s shoulder with one long finger. Peter barely felt it. “You figured out I was recruiting. That’s obvious. Shows some initiative. But the thing is, I’m not the only game in town. There are two other recruiters doing the same shit I am.”

Jackson “Montana” Brice and Raymond “The Ox” Bloch, Peter remembered. “Oh? You need help meeting your quota?”

Brito chuckled darkly. “No, I need help not getting stabbed.” He shrugged. “Let’s just say that I have some significant… disagreements with Montana and the Ox. The kind that makes me check my sheets for horse heads and my whiskey for poison. You feel me, Petrelli?”

“I feel you.”

The SUV came to a stop suddenly. Mitch knocked on the other side of the privacy window but didn’t seem to linger. The car bounced a little as he got out. Brito’s smirk suggested that Peter needed to hurry up and do the same.

So he did. The cold air hit Peter’s lungs like a knife. It was well and truly late, and New York City didn’t fail to remind him how very, very cold it could get at night. While his gear was thick and good for fighting, it wasn’t that insulating. He tried very hard not to shiver. He recognized this neighborhood. Maybe.

Brito rounded the car, shoving on a pair of gloves. Before Peter could spin and find a landmark, Brito gently pushed him forward to a narrow alleyway. It was thin, barely wide enough for trash cans, and shaped like an L. It ended with a rusted brown door imbedded in a red brick wall.

Mitch knocked seven times in a distinct pattern, then the door opened in a rush of stagnant, warm air. The doorman squinted suspiciously at the three of them. He looked like Ned Flanders and Angus Filch had a baby, but only Filch had a say in his upbringing.

Charmingly, Brito wiggled his fingers in a semblance of hello.

Sneering, the paranoid little man let them inside.

It was dark. There was a repetitive beat, like bass from a nightclub. Peter could hear foot stomps and cheers from above, and, if he strained, even some conversations. But whatever their upstairs neighbors were doing, it had little bearing on their floor, which was empty and eerie as hell. It was lit up by sparse construction lights strung up every three or four feet.

They followed the lights down the hallway right up to a long table. It sat just to the left of a steel door with electronic locks built into it, and at the table itself was a bored Asian man. He was built like a football player and was roughly Peter’s age. Maybe a little younger. He had his cheek propped up by his fist, and he was looking down at a tablet. From his angle, all Peter could see was moving colors. It was silent. The guy had an earphone in his ear, but only one.

When they approached, the guy didn’t look up. He just pounded a button on the table, and the door next to him unlocked, swinging open.

Mitch went through it almost immediately, but Flanders caught Peter’s elbow before he could do the same.

“Wait. He’s new. We have to process him.” Flanders hit another button on the table, and the door locked itself again.

To that, the other man dragged a box from under his table, dropping it on top. “Wallet and phone,” said the football player, eyes still on his tablet.

Brito was watching this whole thing, his thumbs tucked into his belt loops. He looked amused, damn him.

Thankful for Henderson’s fake identification, Peter handed over the wallet, dropping it in the guy’s outstretched hand. Without looking, the guy tossed his wallet in the box and reached out his hand again. Then he looked up when Peter failed to deliver.

“No phone,” Peter said quickly, not likely how heavily the guy’s eyes dropped on him. “Can’t afford the upkeep.”

Brito curled his hands around Peter’s shoulders from behind. Then, and only then, did Brito pitch in—and he still made Peter feel like the butt of the joke. “He’s in serious debt, Mark.” Peter was squeezed and rattled like a misbehaving little boy made to apologize to the neighbors by his father.

Mark made a considering noise in the back of his throat. Then he rose—a six foot something of him, towering effortlessly over Peter. He leaned across the table, putting his weight into his fists, all menace. “Can you afford a busted kneecap if I find one on you anyway, dead boy?”

“Have you gone to the hospital recently? Medical bills are outrageous.”

Brito’s hands tightened sharply. Peter’s mouth was going to get him killed one of these days.

But today wasn’t that day, because Mark was suddenly smiling. He tapped the center of his chest. “Yeah, no shit. I got a heart attack a few years back, and collections is still on my ass.”

“Yeah? My aunt has been battling cancer since I was 12.”

Mark made a face. “Fucking sucks, dude. My dad-”

“We’re not here to make friends, Mark,” Flanders snapped suddenly. “You’re here to warm a seat and open a door.” Mark made a face, stepping back. Flanders glared at Peter next. “You. Strip.”

Before Peter could say anything—or even react to the idea of criminals knowing his face—Brito was suddenly stepping in and between Peter and Flanders.

“That’s not necessary.”

“It’s the protocol,” Flanders said doggedly. “We gotta check him for tech.”

“And is that piece of equipment on your hip a 50K fashion accessory or what?” Brito bit back, glowering. “Because the boss sure as hell isn’t supporting your cheap porn habits. Get your rocks off on your own time.”

Flanders sputtered, turning bright red. Sighing irritably, Brito reached for and grabbed the collar of Peter’s vest. He tugged on it roughly. Taking the hint, Peter unzipped it. Brito ripped it out and tossed it at Mark, who dug through it, ignoring the knives. Brito held out a quelling hand to Peter when Peter reached for his belt automatically.

“Well?” Brito said impatiently. “Work your staff, Gandalf.”

Peter had a weird feeling that Brito and Wade would probably get along.

Flanders, on the other hand… If looks could kill, Brito would have been six feet under ten years ago. He ripped his detector off his belt, running it up and down Peter’s body twice. Then another for good measure. The beeping never changed frequency or urgency—not that that stopped him from running it down Peter’s body one last time.

“He’s clean,” Flanders said petulantly. Mark tossed Peter’s vest back to him cheerfully, tapping on the button that would let them in.

Flanders rounded on his coworker almost immediately, hissing, “You should have at least patted him down. If he’s a narc-”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s on my head.” Mark watched Peter follow Brito into the next room. “My money’s on you, dead boy.”

That made Peter feel uneasy, but he kept walking, following Brito into yet another hallway. It opened up quickly into a small, square plaza. Several floors of balconies looked down on the spare tiles and the handful of men and women loitering there. From here, Peter could hear the club’s music much louder, but no one here was dancing. 

“Is there a reason why I’m already making enemies?” Peter asked tersely.

Brito had his hands in his pockets. “That was one of Montana’s men. He hassles me every time I come back in. Montana would prefer I stayed under his thumb where he can keep an eye on me.”

“And he’s not the only one,” a woman said with a smirk. She was leaning up against a wall in the plaza, decked out in loose cargo pants, combat boots, and a fur trimmed leather jacket. Blond hair was pulled up into a loose, messy bun, and she walked up to Brito like a woman with nothing to fear.

And she wouldn’t have anything to fear in the first place. She was Wendy Conrad. People feared _her_.

Most crews had a getaway driver. Wendy was notorious for being a getaway bomber. Her last robbery in Brooklyn killed three cops and injured seven civilians. She was caught only because Clint had been making his way over to Steve’s apartment. He’d dropped the pizza he was carrying and pinned her to a wall with three arrows—and he hadn’t been particularly careful about his aim. She’d sued him quickly afterwards for maiming her but had a difficult time making her case against Tony’s lawyers. Soon after, the city passed a law giving vigilantes more legal protection against similar lawsuits. It had been a rather pivotal moment for Peter as Spider-Man. A pivotal time for many of them.

And probably not what Wendy wanted to be remembered for. She was supposed to be doing 20 to life in prison, not hanging out here.

Wendy’s eyes jumped from Brito to Peter. One eyebrow arched. Her arms crossed over her chest, pulling her jacket far enough to reveal a pair of thick metal arm bands. “I see. You blew me off in a fit of angst, but you still managed to go recruiting, huh?”

Peter stared at the arm bands. They weren’t decoration. They were tech. Clint had told him that Wendy once set off a bomb in a bus from those same arm bands six miles away. She was careful. She was smart. She rarely was cornered—and Clint had been lucky to catch her in the act.

“What can I say,” Brito drawled, “I’m a professional.”

She laughed at that. They were friendly. Peter didn’t know why that surprised him. He knew Brito was a criminal—a felon, even, with his own history of time behind bars. Peter couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed by this, though. Up until this point, Peter kept telling himself that Brito was a predictable factor, the devil he knew.

Maybe he needed to stop doing that.

Wendy was looking Peter up and down. “Who’s this one?”

“Milo Petrelli,” Brito said casually, looking at Peter too. “AKA The Menace.”

Peter tensed. That was a little too on the nose. What did Brito know?

“Ooh. Haven’t heard that one yet. Should perk some interest with our clients. Shows a little more creativity than the Pounder or the Ravager or the Beast.” She rolled her eyes, elbowing Brito. “Hey, you score a meeting with the Benefactor recently? I really need someone to ban the Ox from naming his recruits.”

Brito laughed once, sharp. Then he looked at Peter. “What?”

Peter didn’t know where to start. Should he call out the Heroes reference with its careful tiptoe around his real first name? Or should he focus his efforts on what J. Johan Jameson used to call him when he ruled the roost at the Daily Bugle?

He didn’t do either. He was afraid of what Brito had to say. “I kinda liked Dead Boy.”

Brito rolled his eyes. “Go away.” He turned his back on Peter. “Go stand with the new recruits. We’re still organizing them into units. The units will decide where they sleep, when they eat. Memorize your unit number, then ignore everything else.” He looked over his shoulder. “Like I said before… there’s them? And then there’s you. Remember that.”

Peter did as he was told, one ear on the pair behind him.

“Doesn’t seem very menacing,” Wendy commented. Rude.

“Trust me, Wendy, put that kid in a cage? He’ll wipe the floor with any of them.”

“Any, huh?” Wendy’s voice went sly. “What about Cain Marko?”

“Well… maybe not him,” Brito said, backtracking uneasily. Why was that name so familiar? “Say, he still hanging around?”

“Like a bad smell. Said his last job was as easy as ripping the legs off of a pinned, dying spider. He’s… unpleasant.” There was disgust in her voice. “He missed one of his targets, though. Got bored waiting for her in a parking garage and started harassing a hot dog vendor for free food instead.”

Brito sighed heavily. “And I thought the Ox was gonna be our biggest liability…”

“Watch it, punk,” snarled a man two inches from Peter’s face.

“Sorry!” Peter said automatically, backing up a few steps. Then he promptly started overthinking it. Should have he said something tougher? Meaner? Should he be starting a fight here and now? Build up some credit? It was against his very being not to apologize for something that was truly, genuinely his fault, but he could keep his pro-social behavior locked up on the inside for the time being.

It was a moot point anyway. The other recruit was already walking away.

Peter sighed, hanging his head. Then he looked up across the little plaza, scanning around carefully. A couple of people wandered around the recruits, barking at people to provide their information. This information was inputted into a tablet, and the person moved on—likely preparing for the “units” Brito talked about. Beyond them, four people in tactical vests kept up a loose parameter around the space, watching everyone at once with one hand on their sidearms. Brito and Wendy were not among them, too busy talking shop with each other.

Neither were Montana and the Ox. The two other recruiters stood in the far corner, backs to the wall. They talked to each other—a word here, a phrase there—and their body language was tense. But they weren’t watching the recruits like the armed people. No, all 100% of their attention was on Brito’s very unguarded back. And that attention sure as hell wasn’t kind.

Jeez, Brito wasn’t kidding when he said the recruiters had a beef with him, was he?

Peter frowned a little under his mask, then analyzed the recruits standing between him and Brito’s not so friendly counterparts. If the people in front of him were tonight’s new recruits, then it had to be a pretty good haul. Besides Peter, there were ten other men—and three extremely tough looking women. If Brito could be believed, then all of these people were recruited by the Ox and Montana.

And there was no love lost between recruiters and recruits, it seemed. Everyone was standing well away from their recruiters, clumped up in bunches. They kept one wary eye cast towards the Ox and Montana at all times. Some of them were armed. Some of them were not. All of them looked dangerous.

And at least one looked familiar. “Ralph?”

A small man, smaller than Peter, turned to face him. He had thinning brown hair and black eyes. “Do I know you?” he said rudely. Ralph Santos was very wide with a deeply unfriendly face.

And, once upon a time, he had patiently walked Peter through creating a persona to wear while in the ring, a persona Peter had clung to when he eventually became Spider-Man.

Peter went to run a hand over his hair, hitting his mask instead. Awkwardly, he stumbled forward instead. “Uh, it’s Petrelli. From ten or so years ago? We fought together in Brito’s last operation…?”

As tentatively stated as this reminder was, it got through to Ralph, as some of the hostility slowly faded from his face. “No shit,” he said softly. “Really?” He reached out behind him and pounded on the back of the massive man next to him. “Hey Roy, it’s Petrelli.”

The man turned around. Roy Simmons was no joke. He was a massive, seven-foot fighter who probably hadn’t skipped a day of weight lifting since Peter saw him last. But he was bald now, and there were laugh lines on his face that hadn’t been there when Peter was fifteen.

Those same lines creased as Roy lit up. “Petrelli!” he crowed, stepping forward. “Hey!” Peter found himself the recipient of a rough, engulfing hug. It only lasted a second, but Roy didn’t quite let go of him, gripping his shoulders and giving him a little shake. “Man, that’s so funny, we were just talking about you.”

Peter was a little off balanced by the friendly reception. “Where have you been since, uh, things went down with Brito?”

Ralph shot him a look like he was stupid. “I’m a bus driver. I’ve been driving buses. What do you think?”

“I went into the MMA,” Roy said with starry eyes. “I got my ass kicked. It’s on YouTube. It was great.”

“Oh? Show me on your phone?”

Peter’s shoulder was lightly punched. Roy was grinning. “Ha, nice try, narc. I turned in my phone and my wallet like everyone else.” 

But Ralph wasn’t smiling like Roy was. “Rumor was you sold us out last time.” His arms were crossed over his chest.

“Oh yeah,” Roy said, not as concerned.

Peter needed to nip this one in the bud. “Why would I sell out a guy giving me steady paychecks? No, I ran out the backdoor the second I saw Iron Man dropping in on us. Thought he was bringing in the feds.” Peter swallowed under his mask. Thankfully, Ralph was starting to look thoughtful, like maybe he was buying it. So Peter continued. “It was a dick move of me to run, I’m sorry. But at the time, I had some interesting… side-hustles.” His primary side-hustle was being a minor who didn’t want a criminal record. “And the cops were seconds after Iron Man, so…”

“Probably a good call,” Roy said, his voice rough with embarrassment. Peter looked back up at him, remembering that night. Iron Man hadn’t been half the household name back then as he was now, but he was still a celebrity. And Roy tried to fight Tony, bare knuckles against nickel-titanium alloy. Roy wasn’t a mutant either. In his shoes, Peter would be embarrassed too.

But Peter wasn’t worried about Roy. Roy wasn’t a hard sell. Ralph was, as always, grouchy and suspicious.

But now Ralph was nodding. “Makes sense. We dodged jail time because we testified against, well…” Ralph trailed off, making a vague gesture behind Peter.

Peter followed the line of his sight to Brito chatting with Wendy. Then he immediately whipped around, horrified. “Wait, what?” he barked. “You testified against Brito? And you’re working for him again? Are you insane?”

Ralph sighed. He looked tired. “Look, buddy, Brito isn’t the one who recruited us. See that fucker over there?” He tipped his chin towards Montana with the rope and the mustache straight out of a western. “He showed up at my workplace, made me a deal. I said no. He left me with a black eye and started following my daughter around after school. He asked me again. I said no. My daughter’s boyfriend got jumped and put into the hospital yesterday. Then he asked again. I got the point, so here I am.”

“I was recruited by that other guy,” Roy said candidly, nodding at the Ox. “He threatened to break my pop’s legs. My pop’s ninety, he doesn’t deserve that.”

“Recruited is a fucked word for what they did to us, Petrelli,” Ralph said, his voice heavy. “Once I said yes, Montana put a fucking bag over my head and shoved me in a van. I was in there for three hours with four of the other guys here. He was driving in circles, I think. They sure as shit didn’t want us to know where we were. We’ve only just got out.”

“Same here,” Roy said nodding.

“How did Brito recruit you?” Ralph asked, curious.

Peter said nothing. He thought about how quickly Brito tried to talk him out of it, how many times Brito had given him an out.

Ralph shot him a knowingly look. “Guessing by that gear that he probably used the carrot instead of the stick. Not surprised. You were his favorite, remember?”

“We’re like the three amigos in here,” Roy commented, looking around.

Ralph paused, then shot his friend a narrow-eyed look. “Care to explain that?”

Roy didn’t for a solid minute, too busy looking at everyone else. When he spoke, his voice was tight, low, and fast. “Brito used to deal in us—guys and gals who liked to fight but weren’t good enough for the big leagues. But see these fuckers? They’re all hardened fighters here. We’re the Chevy Chase to their Hector Lombard. We’re the Steve Martin to their Rampage Jackson. We’re the goddamn _Kissy Kissy Meow Meow_ to their _Dark Souls_.”

Ralph sucked in a big breath, then let it out slowly. “…I _hate_ that I understood that whole sentence,” he said wryly. Good for him, because Peter didn’t. Then Ralph’s gaze jerked up to one of the balconies. He swung an arm out, hitting both Roy and Peter. “Hey. Hey. Is that-” He made an angry noise deep in the back of his throat. “Don’t be fucking obvious, Roy, you’re gonna get us killed.”

The men continued to bicker, but for Peter, all that noise was drowned out.

Because looking dispassionately down at the recruiters was none other than Wilson Fisk.

-

Ellie and Yukio owned a house in Staten Island. It was a cute thing. Really adorable. It was tiny and square and perched in the darkness amongst a ton of other tiny houses with adorable and all too easily accessible windows.

Yeah. Wade totes broke in.

That being said, he didn’t so much break in as he oozed through an open window in their tiny (and cute!) kitchen. Oozed might be the most appropriate word here. Wade had left his last totally not lethal “interview” by jumping out of a window, and his body was still rudely trying to LARP as a red Gusher. So, yeah. Have fun cleaning that one up, ladies.

Wade slid out on the linoleum floor with a grunt. And when that failed to get him the attention he wanted, he lifted a foot and kicked over, sighing very, very loudly. Because what was the point of breaking into his friends’ houses if he wasn’t 100% sure they were already home?

Like magic, Ellie rounded the corner into the kitchen, glowing fists up and ready to pummel him. The light of her mutation flickered a bit when she saw who her intruder was but not by much. Ouch.

Yukio came in a step after her, cell pressed to her ear. “Of course, we’ll let you know when we see Wade,” Yukio said, lying like a champ. She was dressed in cute pink pjs, of course. Ellie, on the other hand, looked like she raided a Hot Topic for memes and came out with Legend of Korra merch instead.

Wade wiggling the three remaining fingers he had at them. His world was swirly and buzzing, and he was probably resembling a cactus right now. But not an attractive one. Nothing Wade did was attractive, no matter what Peter said.

Hesitating, Ellie let her explody powers dim and die back down. “You motherfucker,” she whispered. Then, ungently, she hauled him off her floor and pushed him into one of the chairs surrounding her cramped kitchen table.

She was glowering the entire time. It was great to be loved.

Wade collapsed on the table, sighing for real this time. He needed to recharge. Maybe even literally.

He’d been running around for hours, but he felt dangerously like he was no closer to finding out what happened to Peter.

He’d hit up the Daily Bugle first. He’d had about half a second to interrogate some terrified staff people before the Boy and Girl Scouts of America were on his ass. While running away from his friends, Wade’d had a big brain moment: what else did the Daily Bugle symbolize but a former owner who prided click bait and ad revenue over sharing the truth about Spider-Man?

So he broke into J. Jonah Jameson’s apartment, preparing a media interview of his very own.

Which… didn’t go quite the way he planned? Wade got yelled at, mostly. Jameson had brass balls to start with, and getting older seemed to make them even brassier. It didn’t take very many questions to figure out that not only did Jameson have no idea what he was talking about, Jameson didn’t even know Spider-Man was (allegedly!) dead.

“Some journalist you are!” he’d spat before jumping off the man’s balcony into traffic. A strong contender for Top Anime Exits, he was sure.

About five minutes later, Jameson was enthusiastically mouthing off on Twitter on “the menace’s most dangerous allies”. It would have been the top headline of the news tomorrow if he wasn’t retired. Oops.

Anyway. Even though someone in a Spider-Man costume was dropped on the stairs of the business, it was clear that the Daily Bugle connection was weak.

Round two was Oscorp. Obviously.

And Harry wasn’t as obscenely militant as Jameson, but he was stubborn. He kept threatening to have security throw him out on his ass, and the only thing that kept Wade from promising to do worse was the fact that Harry looked like hell—eyes red, hair mussed, and office blacked out.

Well, that and Gwen Stacy.

She’d come in around minute five of their shouting match and glared at them both. Under the force of that expression, they both sat down. Then she sat on the edge of Harry’s desk and started walking Wade through everything Peter had done that might have put a target on his back. Apparently, Peter spent a good chunk of his working time at Oscorp dismantling the nasty little surprises the Green Goblin had left behind in the company. That included everything from dumping years’ worth of profitable research to quietly canning employees who had a little too much affinity with a certain supervillain. Any one of these things, while sanctioned by Harry, could have gained Peter a whole mess of enemies.

Harry denied it. “They’d kill me before they’d kill him,” he’d argued hotly.

“Not if they wanted to send you a message,” Gwen had replied dully. The two stared at each other for a long time before Harry turned away, covering his face with his hand.

Wade’d had no idea Peter was involved in this, and it kind of hurt just a bit—to know he didn’t know. Because he would have talked Peter out of it. Or tried to, anyway. Nothing was more dangerous than sickeningly rich assholes afraid of losing an inch off their profit margin.

Especially if that asshole already had a body count. Wade shot off a message for someone to check on Norman Osborn.

He immediately got lucky. Or rather, Domino got lucky. She just happened to be in the same city as the SHIELD containment, and it didn’t take her much cheating of the system to figure her way into a locked down facility. It took another fifteen minutes, but she sent him a sheepish selfie by a withered, comatose man in a hospital bed. Norman Osborn was still down for the count.

Still in New York City, Gwen’s hypothesis also quickly hit a dead end. No messages were sent to Harry. The city might have known Spider-Man was dead by now, but no one was aware of the midday disappearance of corporate drone, Peter Parker. No one, but those who knew both sides of him.

Wade left with Gwen’s promise that he’d get an update if anything happened to substantiate her theory.

He hit up Weasel. There were at least 50 people on the dark web taking credit for offing Webs. Weasel had a list of them—names, date of birth, IP addresses, locations, everything. Weasel tended to be underestimated by people because of his lack of ambition and his criminally laid-back personality, but there was a reason why he was such a prized information broker. He was easily one of the most dangerous people Wade had ever met.

Now that Wade was done saying all those nice things about Weasel, know this—Weasel was a fucking cock tease. _He wouldn’t give Wade his list._ He was busy on his end, trying to eliminate leads because, and get this: he was absolutely sincere about not wanting Wade to go on another murder spree.

What a fucking _prick_.

That aside, that wasn’t who Wade was anymore. He was hardly a choir boy, no. And it would be hypocritical of his team to demand that of him. After all, the Avengers as a group wracked up quite the kill count. Iron Man alone wiped out two terrorist cells before the public even figured out a name for him. But the Avengers worked hard to be a group that could be counted on in times of crisis. A group that could be trusted. Wade didn’t want to be the one who ruined that for them.

He’d renounce them publicly first, record himself burning up his beloved Avengers card, and _then_ go out on a murdering spree. See? Wade could be thoughtful.

And now someone was pulling a shard of glass out of his head. Ow. Wade mumbled wetly. His saliva tasted like copper and grape Flintstone vitamins.

“Stop talking about safe words,” Ellie said impatiently, pulling out another shard. It clicked audibly, hitting porcelain. Wade lifted his head just enough to see that she had dragged a chair over to him during his pity party of one. She met his gaze. “You’re worrying a lot of people.”

Wade had a hard time fully understanding that—Colossus was a lot of people, right? “My morals are still intact.” That was the only thing his favorite Russian cared about.

“Except your brain is a mobius strip.”

“Infinite and ineffable? I’ll take a compliment for 500, Alex.”

“I meant it’s twisty and annoying,” Ellie said with gritted teeth, pulling out an extra-long piece, and-oh. The buzzing was gone. Nice. The swirling was fading away, reducing the kaleidoscope effect of his vision.

Which just left Negasonic Teenage Blue Raspberry Warhead staring at him in the dim light of her bloody kitchen. She looked constipated. Well, she always looked constipated, but this was less “I ate dodgy Taco Bell last night” and more “I drank an entire gallon of milk, and I’m lactose intolerant”.

Yukio was still on the phone in the other room, spinning tales. The clock ticked. The neighbors next store argued over spaghetti.

“Knees weak, arms are heavy,” Wade sang under his breath, trying to avoid this conversation. But the X-Men didn’t _just_ train their people to be competent. It trained their people to push forward no matter what.

So instead of cracking another joke at him expense, Ellie said, “Sorry about your boy.”

“He’s not dead,” Wade said. He started scratching at the side of his face. Glass fell around his fingers. “He’s not a token gay in a badly written screenplay or some fridge-destined sweetie whose only purpose is to increase the angst factor of some male protagonist. No!” Wade slammed his fist against the table for emphasis. Blood cover shard danced. Ellie didn’t blink. “Spidey’s been kicking it since the '60s. The only time Webs has died and stayed dead was when there was another Spidey to take over the storyline, you know? Story might be oversaturated otherwise. Too many Spideys. Like too many Spideys is ever an actual problem. Ha!”

Did he sound desperate? Because he wasn’t desperate at all. Not a single bit.

“…This is a bad time to remind you about the Spidey Clone Army, isn’t it?”

“ _You shut your mouth,_ ” Wade growled. Then he pointed up. “See? No Major Character Death warning. Prove me wrong.”

Ellie looked up at her slightly water damaged ceiling, frowning. “Wade, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And that was what scared Wade the most. He’d always been a little reality-adjacent. Before Francis and before his time in Special Forces, he was a daydreamer with a short attention span. After Francis and after Special Forces, well… things got weird. Like flashbacks, talking to audiences, and imagining your beloved surrounded by cartoon birds _weird_.

Right, readers…?

And what if Wade _was_ wrong? What if all of this was an elaborate attempt by his sub-conscience to keep him away from the very real fact that he was never going to hear Peter’s voice again?

That would be just the kind of fucked up left turn that the universe would deal him for shits and giggles. And the only thing keeping him from tipping off that precipice was the knowledge that their friends had yet to gain custody over fake Spidey’s body.

The. Only. _Thing_.

And that thing was hella suspicious, no matter how you cut the cake.

Yukio came back into the kitchen, clutching her phone to her chest. “They didn’t believe me for a second. They’re coming this way.”

Wade stood slowly. “Nice try, though, gummy bear.”

“Wade, stay,” Yukio begged. Ellie rose, joining her. “We can help you.”

“No can do,” Wade rubbed the small of his back. He didn’t have nearly enough time to heal. “Don’t let them tell you off for lying, peanut. Tell ‘em I held you at gunpoint.” Wade flexed miserably. “Suns out, guns out.”

Wait. It was night. Fuck.

Shaking his head, he walked back to the window. Then he paused, rooting around in utility belt. “By the way, I brought you a quiche.” He found the little squashed thing and delicately placed it in Ellie’s hands.

“Your gestures of affection are getting weirder and weirder,” she commented. Her heart wasn’t in it, though.

“Bye, Wade,” Yukio said, waving him off sadly.

“Also, we have a door-”

Wade left the way he came.


	9. Chapter 9

The night passed. Peter got sorted into unit 62 with nine other new recruits. The fact that there was no one else in their unit—no one with experience, no one who could show them the ropes—was concerning. They were issued thin sleeping bags and bare rations. Bread, cheese, peanut butter, and nothing else, it seemed. Worse, they had to retrieve these rations with everyone else, and there was a pecking order amongst the 100 or so odd fighters. The newbies were at the bottom of the list, and Roy got his head smashed in the table for even trying.

Still, with a bloody grin, Roy ambled back to Ralph and Peter with three slightly crushed rations, pleased as a puppy who mastered its first trick. Ralph told him off, voice shaking as he rendered first aid with napkins they managed to steal away. Peter told them to split his ration. He’d already eaten.

If his night ended there, Peter would have been glad. As it was, he had hours more to go, and, as soon as the food was distributed, Peter was tapped for his very first match.

In the whirlwind of it—being singled out, dragged from the bunch, and marched to another room—he missed Roy and Ralph’s horrified faces. All he knew was that this set up was nothing like the cacophony and cheers of Brito’s original operation when Peter was just a teenager.

As the Spider, Peter used to get caught up in the energy of the crowd. Not one for team sports, Peter hadn’t been used to the idea of a crowd screaming for him. And yes, sometimes for him to get his ass kicked—but still, _for him_. Despite the consequences of his short stint as a fighter entertainer, he’d always thought fondly of the experience and of the memories he had made there in Brito’s operation.

But this? This was nothing like that.

Peter was shoved into the center of a dingy room with another man. At first glance, it looked like the gutted insides of an abandoned kitchen. Graffiti dotted the walls, and a half-destroyed faucet leaked slowly on the ground, pooling in a rather concerning dark mass. A counter was partially removed, making for more space, and there was glass all over the floor.

The two of them weren’t alone. Lights shined down on them. Cameras zoomed in on the makeshift ring. Behind the lens sat a man and a woman with laptops and headsets, calling out view counts and bets to each other. Another man ran around them on light feet, armed with a GoPro and another camera, taking in Peter—and Peter’s opponent, he realized—at different angles.

This was being streamed, Peter realized, registering the chatter. Peter still didn’t know how to contact Yuri, but if she was still monitoring the fights, here was his very first chance. He missed the start of the fight, too busy thinking about how to signal “Wilson Fisk is the Benefactor” without every snitch in the room catching on.

He was distracted, and he got punched for it. Law of the jungle, really. Even the urban jungle.

But worse, his opponent decided to immediately press his advantage, wrapping his thick, sweaty arm around Peter’s neck and forcing him to double over. The man punched and kept punching the side of Peter’s head viciously, showing no signs of ever stopping.

There was a desperation in it, Peter would think later.

In the moment, Peter wasn’t as kind. Ears ringing, Peter braced his hands on the man’s torso and pushed, breaking the man’s grip. Peter staggered back a few feet, feeling dizzy. When his opponent lunged at him again, Peter launched out a kick a little too hard.

His opponent didn’t stand a chance. He slid back and hit the other wall with force, cracking the back of his head against it. He slowly slid down, silent, and didn’t move. The chattering laptop duo went silent, dumbfounded. The lights crackled above him. The faucet kept dripping.

Then the GoPro guy—apparently also the referee—ambled over lazily, putting a small mirror up against the mouth of Peter’s opponent. It fogged up. The referee lightly slapped the other man’s cheeks three times. When he didn’t respond, the referee stood and he called it.

And thus Peter won his first match before he had the chance to learn his opponent’s name.

The unconscious man was dragged back to his unit, and Peter was marched to his own. He couldn’t believe how quickly their surprise turned to mean-spirited amusement. Around him, the Benefactor’s men chattered cheerfully about the winnings they had made tonight. Odds on Peter had been slim. His opponent’s name was Johnson, and he had an almost perfect victory record. He’d been with them for almost two months under Montana—and there was apparently nothing better to these people than watching a sure thing get trounced.

Peter was trying very hard not to think about it, and he was relieved to be back with Roy and Ralph in their unit. By then, it was almost 2 in the morning, and they were all expected to get some shut eye.

Unit 62 had been shoved in a room with Units 13, 34, and 61. Peter was not quite ready for the reality of sleeping in the same room as 39 other people in a space barely larger than the square footage of his entire apartment. The first two things he noticed was that it was noisy and that it smelled. The heat from so many bodies was welcome on a winter night, but it was a stale heat that reeked of sweat, blood, and humanity.

Peter would have joked about this being his first pajama party, had someone from Unit 13 not started loudly ranking their whole unit for Easiest to Stab for Their Ration. Peter was unfairly high on the list. But they got the hint—there would be no friend making here. Probably no friend making in their own unit either, given some of the hostile banter.

So, adrenaline still pumping, Peter pulled his sleeping bag a little closer to Roy and Ralph and tried to get some sleep. Lights were shut out on them around 2:30, leaving them with nothing but the red glow of an exit sign. Peter woke up every 30 minutes, senses high on alert and guilty thoughts fixated on Johnson.

Around hour two, Ralph rolled over to face him, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “You awake?” he slurred.

“Maybe.” Behind Peter, Roy snored.

“…How was your fight? You didn’t say.”

“It sucked.”

Ralph sighed. “You got family, Petrelli?”

“I plead the fifth.”

Ralph grimaced at him, then pawed at his pants, pulling something out of his back pocket. He shoved it at Peter. “Grabbed it out of my wallet before they took it. It’s my daughter. Not that you can see her in this bullshit—god, I hate sleeping on the floor.”

Peter could see just fine. Ralph’s daughter had his eyes and his nose. But where Ralph’s face seemed permanently switched to grumpy mode, his daughter’s expression was all light and brightness. Curly black hair created a halo around her head. She was bent over at the waist, aiming an ear- to- ear grin to the person behind the camera. She also had one hand pressed over the shoulder of a very small boy, which was probably intentional. The little guy looked bound and determined to charge off the stairs and into the street without stopping.

“Me and her mom divorced a long time ago, but she never held it against me.” Peter silently gave the photo back to him. Ralph took it, staring down at it. He couldn’t see it, Peter realized. Not like Peter could. But it was enough for him to just hold it. “Didn’t let us use her when we were our most toxic either. She was always way smarter than us. She’s a teacher now, but even then, she had those instincts. She’s always been uncommonly mature for her age.”

“She seems lovely.”

“She’s way outta your league, buddy,” Ralph grouched, but it was with the good naturedness of a protective father. Peter just huffed out a quiet laugh. “You know, she actually reminded me a lot of you back then. When we first met.”

Now, Peter’s spidey sense wasn’t at all a psychic reflex. When it worked, it acted more as a gauge of the danger he was in. Even so, there were times where Peter felt like he had a crystal ball looking into the future, letting him know exactly what was about to happen.

Like now. He knew where this was going. Ralph was like a dog with a bone. Not much was going to distract him from his end goal.

Sure enough, Ralph paused. Then, slowly, he said, “When they busted Brito’s last operation, they were looking for a kid. Was that kid you?”

Peter stayed silent for a bit. He rolled onto his back, staring at the dim, red tinted ceiling. “…yeah.” There was no harm in admitting it. Not here. Not now.

Ralph seemed to hold his breath. “How… how old were you?”

“15.”

Ralph made a small, dismayed noise in the back of his throat, collapsing back on his back. “You were a _baby_ ,” he said, demoralized.

Peter would have preferred if Ralph was upset that he lost to a child. But his tone made it clear that he was more upset that Peter was a child at all. He pushed himself up on his elbows, annoyed. “Hey, I’m practically 30 now!”

“My daughter’s older than you. You’re _still_ a baby,” Ralph claimed stubbornly. Peter wanted to throw his hands up. He was never going to win with this guy. He dropped back to his back, arms crossed tightly over his chest. And no, he was _not_ pouting.

They laid like that for another ten minutes. Then Ralph’s arm came up, swinging in Peter’s direction and knocking into his elbow. When he spoke, Ralph sounded drowsy again. It had been a tough night for them all. He couldn’t blame the man for getting some sleep. Hell, Peter wished he could join them. “Look, Petrelli, look-”

“I’m looking.”

Ralph ignored him. “If you got any currency with Brito? You gotta use it to get out of here, ASAP.” His words were slow, spaced out carefully. “A kid like you… bright, funny, and young. You gotta have people missing you. I don’t care what he said to you to make you come here. What he promised. It’s not worth it.”

Peter didn’t say anything for a long time, so long that Ralph’s breathing evened out as he fell back asleep. Peter continued to stare at the ceiling. Was it actually worth it?

Peter had been young when he met Wilson Fisk too. He’d admit that. He’d been just shy of 22. He hadn’t been paying attention then either. He was still so new at everything, but he hadn’t felt that way at the time. In reality, he’d had only a small handful of experiences under his utility belt—and he thought so highly of himself for it. A car theft here, an assault there. A sprinkle of arson cases. A dash of drug deals. He’d seen it all—or so he thought.

So when he heard of a big international kerfuffle happening on his front doorstep–something about illegal business being dealt across international waters, blah blah blah—he thought, well, why not Spider-Man? Maybe the legal intricacies weren’t up his alley, but a huge $70 million shipment was being detained at the docks, much to the consternation of the parties involved.

He was all for the proper authorities handling whatever the hell was going on, but… _$70 million_. That was surely going to attract some troublemakers, right?

So like the Good Samaritan he was, Peter perched on the harbor for three nights, keeping an eye out on any nonsense or tomfoolery. And on that third night? Jackpot.

A limo pulled up just after ten, sliding past rising security gates. Peter followed them as high up as he could manage, not sure if these were the criminals he expected. After all, they were let in? Did politicians travel by limo? Maybe he was accidentally stalking someone important.

But all of Peter’s defensive musings were dashed by the sight of them three men forcibly breaking open shipping containers. That stank of criminal activity. Peter would know.

All in all, it was a slim operation—only four guys total, and only three armed. He had expected to be in and out in under ten minutes, with all four baddies webbed up like a present for the local NYPD precinct. But the fourth man was… odd. He sat, for one, still in the back of the limo. He idly watched the other three as they broke in and rummaged through the imported goods. The armed guys deferred quickly to the guy in the limo—clearly the head honcho—as he shook his head after every package displayed for his viewing. It was clear that they were looking for something specific—something valuable. Maybe something up in the millions.

And Peter’d decided that he had seen enough. He swung in, grabbing the first guy straight off the ground, webbing him to a pole. Then he dropped back down to deal with the two panicking minions.

He hadn’t been particularly quick about it, a little salty over the fact that the big man in the suit didn’t seem particularly surprised or alarmed to see him. Sure, the head honcho got out of the limo, but he stayed back still, just watching. Peter dragged things out, taunting him to force him to join the fray. But the big bald man refused to be goaded. He even stopped watching at some point, walking over to the shipping container to open one of the abandoned boxes.

Annoyed, Peter webbed up the last guy by his left foot. In a moment of sheer stupidity and misplaced pride, he decided to drop down on top of the box that the big guy was standing by. The coast was clear. He was gonna make the big guy eat it.

His spider sense didn’t go off until the very last moment. In mid-air, Peter had nowhere to go, which was exactly where Wilson Fisk wanted him.

In the box had been an old imperial Japanese katana, and Peter only found that out because Wilson Fisk used it to slice Peter open, from belly to collarbone.

It hadn’t been deep—probably not as deep as Fisk had wanted. Peter had a crisp, visceral memory of crashing to the ground, looking up to see Fisk frown at the blade, commenting about the failings of the previous owner. He’d turned to Peter then, mouth open, massive and unimpressed and _dangerous_ and-

Peter never found out what else Fisk was about to say that night. Hair standing on end, Peter got his feet under him, and he ran. 

And Peter never again faced Fisk alone. It was too risky. Even that night, he’d gone straight for help, forgoing his own needs. Hell, he bled so much over New York City in the process, it was lucky he was still so unknown. It wouldn’t have taken much effort for an enterprising, scientific someone to figure out his identity with all of the DNA he’d left behind.

But that night, Peter hadn’t worried about that. He only worried about running and telling someone, _something_. Like a child running after a parent in a time of crisis.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had to retreat. It wasn’t the first time he’d even bled, wearing the suit. But it had been the first time he’d come so unavoidably close to biting the dust. Peter wasn’t prone to considering his own mortality as a concern until that night, until he had thick blood oozing between his fingertips at an alarming rate. The thought of just dying off on some roof stop while a dangerous man like Fisk walked around seemed like a very real and very awful concern.

So he’d busted into Matt’s office, talking a mile a minute, holding his guts together. He didn’t remember much of what happened after that. Lots of shouting. Spinning too. Matt got Peter discrete medical attention, and, while on the mend, Peter repaid that kindness by pestering and bullying the Defenders, a team that barely knew him at that point.

No matter what they said about the matter, it paid off. It only took another four months before the Defenders were able to prove that Fisk had been let out of prison too early—and that his sins went beyond the simple minor crimes he’d been charged with before.

It had been almost eight years since that night, and the thought of Fisk still made him shake. Peter had healed since then. The only physical reminder of his injury was a small scar to the left of his belly button where the blade had dug the deepest.

The experience was good for him, probably. It made him more cautious, more aware of the extent of his healing factor. He’d been injured, and injured badly since then, but no injury had made as big of an impact on his psyche as being cut open by the infamous Kingpin.

The same Kingpin he was now supposed to get noticed by? Ha. Hell no. Fisk was a sharp, highly intelligent man with more than enough experience with liars and con-men. Peter was going to get sniffed out in an instant.

But maybe the universe was doing him a solid, for once. Yuri thought it was unlikely he’d be able to identify the Benefactor in so little time. That Peter had done that before even his first fight was nothing short of miraculous. Peter could walk away now, give Yuri all the intel he wanted, then soak for an hour in Wade’s stupidly huge bathtub while drinking a martini.

But now he knew the Benefactor tracked everyone. What would happen to the people in his unit if he suddenly disappeared? What would happen to Roy? Ralph? What happened to people if someone suspected a snitch?

And yet Yuri still needed to know. Three of her guys were dead because of the Benefactor, not to mention how many other civilians.

He needed to do something, and fast.

So he got up. It was around five in the morning, and he wasted no time walking through the space on silent feet. He noticed pretty quickly that security was shit. Outside of the doors, which were locked by codes and remotes, cameras were few and limited to rotating tripods set in certain corners. The buzzing from the cameras was loud and easy to track, so Peter was able to step around them, never once getting caught by a lens.

Even the human security wasn’t the best. One woman watched a feed from all the cameras, yawning tiredly. Three separate guards at the doors were distracted, at best. One of them was even playing a cheerfully loud mobile game.

Peter wasn’t going to be able to get through the doors, and there were no windows. But there were some sizable vents, and Peter was never below scuttling through a vent like his eight-legged namesake.

The sun was just rising by the time Peter found a way out of the building. He pushed out, shivering the cold winter air. Looking both ways, he lightly dropped the few feet between him and the ground, landing steadily. He looked up at the building he had exited. It was a red brick building only three stories tall, and it had graffitied shipping containers and construction fences all around it. Seeing another awkward camera, Peter ducked under it, then vaulted over the closest fence.

Then he started running, still not sure where he was. There wasn’t a single skyscraper in sight.

About three blocks away, he came across a juice bar and deli set on the first floor of another red brick building. Peter jogged past it until he found an alleyway and ditched his gear, leaving on only his thin undershirt, his pants, and his shoes.

He walked back as smoothly and calmly as possible, miming a double take—as if anyone was watching him. He walked into the store.

“Good morning!” Peter chirped in a horribly rushed British accent. He was smiling his best ‘I’m but a simple tourist, please be kind’ grin. Despite being open at 6, the woman at the cash register didn’t seem to be ready to deal with someone like him so early in the morning.

Peter walked up to the counter, clasping his hands together. “This is super awkward, but I had a late flight last night, and I found out just this morning that I left my mobile in London. Could you please let me use your phone so I can tell my mates where I’m at?” He pressed his palms into the surface, frowning a little. “…And where is that, by the way?”

“New York City?” she said slowly, eyeing him with suspicion. Reluctantly, she pushed the landline phone in his direction—yes!

“More specific than that, come on,” Peter said, laying it on thick.

“…Hunts Point,” she said.

“Thank you!” Peter said, dialing Yuri’s phone number from memory. Then, noticing the woman was still watching, he smiled at her blandly until she got the hint and walked to the back of the store. There was one other employee there—a man—and she pointed out Peter to him, talking quietly.

Peter tensed. Despite shedding his gear, he knew he still looked suspicious—and suspicious people were noticed and remembered. Just how many of the people around here were in Kingpin’s pocket?

Naturally, as if Peter’s life wasn’t difficult enough, Yuri’s phone went straight to voicemail. “Hi love, so sorry,” Peter said, keeping the accent. “I left my mobile at home. But you’ll never believe who I saw yesterday! A mutual friend of ours is in town. Last I recall, he was supposed to be at the big island party—you know the one. Looks like a volleyball? But still very, uh… entrepreneurial. And majestic?” Yuri was going to kill him. That is, if she ever figured out his code. “Also, it looks like some more of our friends made it to the mainland. We should meet them! But I’ll leave the logistics to you. Anyway, I’m in Hunts Point, about three blocks southeast of a lovely little juice bar and deli.”

The man in the store was starting to approach Peter, the woman at his side. He hoped that last sentence was blunt and to the point enough for Yuri.

“Anyway, come pick me up? We’ll do breakfast. See you soon.”

“Hey,” said the man harshly.

Peter raised a hand. “Got to go. But thank you! Americans are so _nice_ -”

The man made a face, but Peter was already bouncing out the door.

“At least buy something,” the woman muttered. Peter didn’t let it get to him. He was riding on the high of success—finally! He had done something. He got in touch with Yuri. Well, Yuri’s voicemail. But that didn’t matter. Now that Yuri had a location, all he had to do was go back, keep his head down, and wait for the sweet, sweet music of the NYPD cracking down on them like a sack full of bricks.

Many sacks and many bricks. He hoped.

Heart pounding, Peter hurried back to his gear, then raced back to Fisk’s building, easily scooting back into through the hanging vent. Not a single camera had spotted him. He was clear.

…aaaand he knew immediately something was wrong. There was too much movement in the building—sliding furniture and pounding feet. He waited until the perfect moment before popping out of the vent. No one was paying much attention. A beefy man with a Super Mario hoodie was running down the hall, wrapping an electric cord around his arm as he gathered it up. Another man, tall and thin, barked bitterly at the heavy handedness of others, carefully packing away cameras in a metal lined case. He hoped to figure out what was happening and mingle with the crowd. A woman almost rolled over his foot with a cart, pushing massive lights. Was there a big fight today?

A hand shot out behind a corner, effortlessly scuffing him like a misbehaving puppy. It was impressive, given the fact that Peter was both taller and stronger than Brito. He went limp.

“And just where have you _been_?” Brito asked, barely audible.

“…Got lost?” When Brito eyed him with barely veiled contempt, Peter just shrugged. Playing dumb was his thing. Womb to tomb.

After a long minute, Brito sighed, loosening his grip on the collar of Peter’s vest. Peter turned to face him unsteadily, not liking having a known knife wielder at his back. Ever. “There are exactly 10 rooms available beyond the locking door you first entered in. Want to try again?”

“Uh-”

Brito was already shaking his head. “Lie better next time. For my health, at least.” He patted the side of Peter’s mask twice, then spun around, walking off. Peter slowly followed, not sure he could believe his good luck. “You have two friends who think you’ve been dragged off and murdered in the night. Otherwise, hardly anyone noticed your snooping. I’ve told everyone who’d listen that I was having you pack for me. You’re welcome.”

“Pack?”

“Yes. Pack,” Brito emphasized, stopping by a large duffle bag. He bent over, rooting around it. Then he pulled something out, throwing it at Peter. “Eat. You missed breakfast. Cold hotdogs and old bread.”

Peter wasn’t sure Brito’s gift was much better. It was a crumbly mess in a plastic Ziploc bag. He cautiously lifted the bottom of his mask slightly. Hoping he wasn’t about to be poisoned, Peter bit into a section. He immediately winced. It was some sort of chia seed/peanut butter/soy concoction wrapped in strips of seaweed–and it tasted like licking a sidewalk next to a convenience store. But it was filling. Extremely filling.

“We’re leaving, if you haven’t done the math.”

Too busy turning out the bag to chase down the taste of peanut butter, Peter didn’t quite register the warning signs right away—and when he did, his heart fell like a ton of bricks. “Why? I haven’t even claimed a corner yet!”

Brito picked up his duffle bag. “We move locations every couple of days, kid. Boss’s orders.” He tossed it at Peter, who caught it awkwardly. He pushed past Peter, gliding an hand over his slicked back hair. He snapped some orders to one of the Benefactor’s associates, but he might as well have been speaking Pig Latin.

Peter wasn’t listening, because everything he’d done that morning was abruptly worthless.

Dismayed, Peter hugged the bag tighter to his chest. Then he shook his head. No. He was trying to cheat his way out of this too early. He’d just have to try this again. And again. And again until it worked. He owed that to Yuri.

But he was going to be here much longer than he’d hoped. His only peace of mind through all of this was the fact that he’d written those letters. Peter might fail, screw up again, and stall, but at least his nearest and dearest wouldn’t be sweating it out too.

And absolutely no one would be doing anything stupid over his “murder”. Not Tony, not Miles, not his friends.

And definitely, certainly not Wade.

-

It was too early in the morning for this.

Jessica leaned back slightly, grimacing at the bright display. She was standing in a rundown apartment building in Soho, responding to an anonymous tip left on her voicemail. In front of her was the ajar door of a brand-new lead in the case of Peter Parker’s alleged death.

Maybe. Because Wade had clearly been here first.

She wasn’t supposed to be on Wade’s trail, but she was kept updated like everyone else. She never understood how Wade’s brain worked sometimes, but she couldn’t deny the fact that he had a hell of a track record for finding his targets. Wade had joked that it was the power of comedic chaos, but she privately thought that maybe Wade was just sincerely that good, attending to details that even people like her, who made a living out of this shit, might miss.

And Wade’s focus in the morning hours of that day had drastically narrowed. He went from harassing random people tangentially related to Peter to suddenly hitting up 10 different criminals in under an hour. No one was dead yet, fortunately, and even the worst of the injured was only slightly maimed. The Avengers found this hyperfocus incredibly concerning and were stepping up their own efforts in response.

More concerning to her, though, was the fact that Wade’s trail and hers had suddenly intersected. If this was really becoming the worst-case scenario, well… she had no idea how to deal with a guy who just didn’t die.

Let alone a guy with such a _bad_ sense of humor.

Frowning, Jessica swayed forward, tucking her fingers under her sleeve. Using her phone, she nudged the mangled door just enough to dislodge the plug lighting up the Christmas lights pinned there. YOU’LL WANT THIS ONE burned in her eyes as an after image, momentarily blinding her from the solid red cartoon heart drawn on the surface of the buckled in wood.

After a moment, she scraped her phone over the heart. Then she brought it back to her, examining it closely.

She immediately sighed, shoulders loosening. The red cartoon heart was drawn with lipstick, not with blood.

Rolling her eyes, Jessica kicked in the door, letting herself in roughly. Thumb tacks and Christmas lights rained down on her merrily. Fuck Wade sometimes, goddamn it.

Brushing tacks off her jacket, she walked into what looked like a kitchen area, scanning the abandoned space. She took another two steps in—then froze.

In the shadows, a broad-shouldered man had his back to her. One hand was nudging through discarded mail. The other was looped through his belt. He looked over his shoulder at her expectantly, and Jessica, recognizing him even in the dark, winced. She felt like a teenager getting caught making out behind the football stands.

“Hey,” she said flatly, shoving her hands in her pockets.

“You should be putting the pressure on Yuri Watanabe,” Steve told her, like she’d forgotten her assigned task. 

“No one asked for Disapproving Ameridad,” she retorted.

A low, raspy laugh came out of another room. Emerging almost sheepishly, Bucky joined them, leaning against a protruding wall. She liked Bucky. Always had. She couldn’t help but feel affinity for brainwashing victims, no matter where the brainwashing came from. When he was relaxed, Bucky could also be quite funny. She hadn’t minded when at all when Bucky came back in town. When the Avengers had to deal with a swarm of irate (or “irate for views”) press for harboring him, Bucky had hung out with the Defenders instead, full of stories about old New York and game to do just about anything.

After Natasha, he was probably Jessica’s favorite Avenger.

“Guessing you boys haven’t caught up to DP just yet,” Jessica said, fishing for information. “Any update to the casualty count?”

There was a small thud. Bucky tipped his head slightly towards it but otherwise didn’t react. Steve pivoted, facing Bucky in a tense stance. “Surprisingly? Still zero,” Bucky said easily. “Wade’s just been getting information from them. He doesn’t seem to be interested in killing anyone just yet.”

“We could stand to get a lot of information from them too,” Jessica said slowly, trying to figure out what was going on. His voice didn’t match his body language. “But we usually work with the cops when this sort of thing happens.”

Steve shook his head, picking up his shield where it was leaning against a couch. “Wade’s targets are not talking to us, and we’re being stonewalled by the police. Even with Chief Stacy’s support, our partnership with the NYPD is at a breaking point,” he said, advancing on Bucky. They shared a look. Then, almost as an afterthought, he looked back at Jessica. “Which is why _you_ should be putting pressure on Yuri Watanabe.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jessica said dismissively. Then, more honestly, she admitted, “I’m not sure that I can get her cooperation. She kind of hates me.”

“I’ll pair you up with someone,” Steve offered.

“Last time someone did that, she had to deal with Maria Hill,” Bucky reminded him.

Steve winced, and suddenly Jessica was in a good mood again. He butted heads with the deputy director often. Fury too, for that matter. Sometime in the last five years, Steve had been accused of being the “single biggest threat to SHIELD’s mission and activities.” Though Tony had complained about being so coldly demoted, he had commemorated the event by making both Steve and himself matching t-shirts.

Steve even wore it sometimes. In public.

“Speaking of which, SHIELD wants to remain neutral on this,” Bucky continued. “But I got a text from Maria earlier saying she’d authorize us to use SHIELD containment cells—and jurisdiction—to continue investigating.” He made a face. “…She also wants to remind us that she’s on vacation.”

“If this is what her vacation looks like, I hope she’s getting paid,” Steve said dryly.

Bucky snorted, pushing himself off the wall. “May I continue, oh Captain, my Captain?”

Tensing up again, Steve inclined his head. He lifted up his shield, pointing it at Bucky. Jessica tensed too.

But she utterly failed on not flinching when Bucky slammed his fist through the wall he was just leaning on. The metal arm creaked, flexing audibly for a moment before it tore a stumbling, terrified man through the thin wall. Powder floated through the air thickly, layering them all with a thin coating of drywall.

And Bucky hauled his prize to the couch, pushing the man into it with some force. The couch slid back an inch, and the man hastened to stand. He fell back into the cushions when Bucky was suddenly in his face again, perched on the coffee table in front of him. He looked behind him, eyes widening at the sight of Steve standing behind the back of the couch. Steve’s grip on the shield was loose now, lowering it to his knees, but that didn’t make him look any less intimidating in the dark.

Bucky snapped his fingers, getting his attention. “Hey. You’ve been listening. You know why we’re here. You can talk to the three of us, or you can talk to the roof.”

The man was likely in his late thirties, though the powder made him look a little older than that. He was barefoot, and his sweater and sweatpants combo were stained. He had a dark and slightly receding hairline as well as a mismatched pattern of facial hair. Thick wire glasses hung off one ear.

Despite this harmless impression, he swelled suddenly in indignation, puffing up with an unexpected ego. “E-extortion!” he barked, whipping his attention between Steve and Bucky several times in as many seconds. He even spared a glance for Jessica as she rounded the couch, baring his teeth at her. She kind of admired it. Meeting Wade clearly hadn’t cowed this man.

“Bullying!” he continued. “Blackmail! And by Captain America, no less. Extortion of honest, hardworking men. I’ll-” Contrary to his snarls, he bit off what he was going to say, flinching when Bucky reached forward with his metal arm and put his glasses back on his face. Now with better sight, the man blinked rapidly.

Then he blanched, pushing so deep into the cushions again, he almost disappearstarthile he’d recognized Steve almost immediately, even half blind, he hadn’t recognized the Winter Soldier at all. Bucky had that sort of effect on people.

“Honest men don’t have other men’s wallets.” The man looked up at Steve, eyes wide. “Or their cell phones. Or their personal belongings.” Steve leaned down, clamping a hand over the man’s shoulder. “Are you going to tell me the truth or are you going to pretend that you have more than a dozen extra roommates?” Steve waited a full minute in silence before shrugging. “Roof it is.”

He stood up straight, and so did Bucky. Alarmed at this, the man waved his hands frantically. “Wait! Wait wait wait. I’ll talk, I’ll talk.”

Jessica stayed quiet. She wondered if she should be more disturbed at the sight of Steve and Bucky shaking down a citizen, but she also knew they wouldn’t do it without cause. Besides, Wade had shaken him down earlier and, judging by the light bruising on the man’s cheek, he hadn’t had to do it very hard.

“Good,” Bucky said, dropping down to the table again. What’s your name?”

“Larry,” the man said. Larry kept his head on a swivel, watching where they were all at any time. Steve wasn’t helping this. He was walking around the couch, rifling through a box on the ground.

“Hi Larry. I’m Bucky. That there is Captain America. And her name is-”

“None of your damn business,” Jessica interjected.

“That’s right,” Bucky said, not missing a beat. “Ms. None of Your Business, the captain, and I, we’ve got some very pointed questions. Questions only you can help us with.”

“Start with this,” Steve said, picking up the box. He pivoted, dropping it on the cushion next to Larry.

Larry didn’t even look at it, gaze fixated on Steve’s expression. “None of that shit is mine. It’s not.”

“Convenient,” Bucky said lightly. Larry’s eyes snapped back to him. “And the photos?”

“What photos?” Jessica asked.

Bucky nodded his head towards the room he’d come out of. She walked past the three of them quickly, flipping on a switch. The room was a tiny standard bedroom in a tiny two-bedroom apartment. Or at least, it would have been, if not for the aforementioned photos. She felt like she’d walked into either the home of a photography nut or a stalker’s den. There were pictures on every flat surface and across every wall.

Some photos were sharp. Some were blurry. Whatever the quality, though, it was quickly apparent that they all had the same subject.

Yuri Watanabe.

“Those aren’t mine either,” Larry said quickly in the other room. “I have a roommate, you see-”

“Right,” Steve said, unimpressed. “I’m supposed to believe you are an innocent, the man hiding behind a false wall in a hidden closet.”

Feeling nauseated, Jessica looked through the photos nearest to her. Yuri was clearly unaware of her stalker. In one photo, she was talking on her phone, looking distracted. In another, she was driving her car, stuck in traffic. A third photo was taken inside of her precinct, a candid photo of Yuri talking to a subordinate just inside her open office door.

The next one made Jessica pause. She pulled it off the wall, letting the tack fall to her feet.

“So what are you? An Airbnb for bad guys?” Bucky quipped.

“Look, look, I’m just a- I’m basically a gig worker, yeah? Someone hands me a package with instructions? I follow instructions. Somebody needs a place to stay? I give ‘em a place to stay-”

Jessica stopped listening. The photo in her hand was taken in broad daylight behind crime scene tape. Peter was sitting on the trunk of a police cruiser, fully suited up. Yuri was next to him, leaning against the same trunk. She had two coffees in her hand, and she was extending one of them to Peter. She was smiling at him, her teeth flashing. 

The vibe between them was so friendly—and so unlike the Yuri Jessica had met.

“…and yeah, I admit it, I’m holding on to personal effects, but it’s just temporary! I didn’t steal them! And I didn’t sell them neither. In fact, I’m supposed to give ‘em back. Like I told that goddamn psychopath earlier, it’s my employer you want. Or, better yet, my roommate! My roommate’s in deep shit with more than just you guys and Deadpool.” Larry crossed his arms over his chest self-righteously. “That cop he’s been following was supposed to be dead already.”

Jessica’s head shot up. It seemed like she needed to get back on Yuri’s tail for more reasons than just Peter’s body and the ever-worsening relationship between the NYPD and their little coalition of super freaks.

She stepped out of the roommate’s room quickly. Then she paused.

Bucky was still talking to Larry, still patiently pulling information out of the man. On the other side, standing next to a box of wallets, Steve stood straight and still. He was staring at a slim brown wallet in his hand. His expression was blank, wiped of all emotion. His eyes lifted to hers suddenly, locking on with an intensity she wasn’t used to. His gaze swept to the ground, but a second too late—she’d already seen something that looked hauntingly close to pity.

After a beat, he tossed her the wallet in his hand. She caught it woodenly, opening it up.

She remembered the anonymous tip that had led her to this apartment, a computer-generated voice slowly reciting the address over and over again. YOU’LL WANT THIS ONE was arranged on the door with Christmas lights almost as a PS to that annoying phone message. Now she had a third piece of evidence supporting her theory that her anonymous tipster wasn’t so anonymous at all. Wade had led her here on purpose.

Larry had Matt’s wallet.

-

Father O’Brien left her a sack lunch last night next to the closed chapel door. Exhausted, Yuri debated picking it up. Could it be a bomb? Could it be poisoned? Upon finding that it was full of prepackaged food that would have been home in a school kid’s lunch box, she dumped it out on a pew. She only realized how deranged she must have looked just then, groping a goddamn Uncrustable for hidden needles.

The word paranoid barely described how she was feeling here.

She had to bow to the need to get some shut eye. So she did, wrapping herself up in her jacket in the third pew from the front.

She slept fitfully, waking up every hour. Her mind raced constantly, badgering her. Her longest nap lasted only an hour and thirteen minutes.

Finally, she woke up around 8am, and not because she was well rested. In the attached church was the sound of too many people. With long, thoughtful diction, Father O’Brien was imploring his congregation to take a moment of silence for one of New York City’s fallen residents. Yuri sat up, grimly wondering who else had died. She sat there quietly, listening as they concluded their moment.

O’Brien continued on, talking about how this person, while not always law abiding, constantly put his life before others. He went on and on about how this person supported his community without pride, how his life was one of triumph and sadness. How this person died the way he lived, risking life and limb in danger on a daily basis to protect his neighbors-

“-and so should we all,” O’Brien said. “At this time, I ask each of you to look to your community. Respect and honor your neighbor, as he would have in your shoes. Remember in even the hardest times the sacrifice of this young man, a life cut too tragically short just yesterday-”

Oh god. They were talking about _Peter_. She grimaced, pained. She heard the people in the next room mumble amen and felt even worse. Here these people were, thinking Spider-Man was in a better place now. But he wasn’t, and Yuri put him there.

Morning light made a bad idea even worse. She ached for him. What was he thinking? What had he seen so far? Was his cover blown? Did they catch him?

Was he dead already? Or did he wise up and go home?

Yuri made a face and pulled out her phone. The black screen greeted her. It was a condition of her leave that she keep her phone on her, which stank of her being put on-call. Whatever. Anyway, O’Leary said her phone had to be on her person. He never said it had to be powered on.

The thing is, that was kind of implied. Grumbling, Yuri turned her phone back on.

It was instantly too bright and noisy. Annoyed at the rush of incoming messages and voicemails, she muted it. Then, weary, she laid back down, one ear on the mass happening next door. There was no harm in catching a few more z’s. Besides, if O’Leary wanted her, he could wait a couple more hours.

Yuri slowly fell back asleep.

-

“I got this, Mitch,” Brito drawled. Eyes gummy and head heavy from fatigue, Peter silently tipped towards the sound of his voice.

“Do you?” Mitch asked, sounding dubious. He was jiggling keys in his hand. “Because I was the one tapped to do this, not you.”

Peter was sitting in the back of Mitch’s SUV with Ralph and Roy. This itself wouldn’t be strange. That is, if there weren’t bags on their heads and cuffs around their wrists. They weren’t alone either. Between Peter and the door was Johnson, who’d been unconscious since Peter beat him. To Peter’s right, Roy was shaking and Ralph was muttering prayers under his breath. To his left, Johnson wheezed unsteadily.

And the cold air swept in, chilling Peter to his bones. It was probably around 8:00 in the morning, but if the sun was out, Peter sure as hell wasn’t feeling it. He flexed his wrists in the cuffs that bound his hands behind him. It wouldn’t take much to break them, but he never liked leaving his chest exposed.

“Mitch,” Brito said gently, like a friend talking another from doing something entirely unnecessary. “ _Pal_. Look, the boss needs all the drivers he can get. This move was completely unscheduled. We have too much equipment, and ten more guys than we planned for. Everyone’s scrambling, trying to follow some order so the cops aren’t tipped off by the exodus of a hundred cars leaving a stalled construction site all at once.” There was a low thud, like a palm clapping on a shoulder. “They need your leadership, buddy. You’ve been doing this for almost a year. Me, I’m just in the way. But I can handle a drop off.”

Mitch hesitated, then he slammed shut the SUV. It was then that Peter discovered that not only was the windows tinted to all hell, it was also soundproof. At least, to normal ears. Ralph and Roy started hissing at each other, and Peter, trying to eavesdrop, did his best to ignore them, leaning as much into Johnson’s person space as he dared.

“Fine,” Mitch was saying. His voice was muffled. There was a jingle of keys again. “You were briefed on the address. You leave in twenty minutes—no sooner, no later. Drive the speed limit. Don’t attract attention. We will expect you at the new location in an hour. You have three inventory drop-offs andonee harbor burial.”

What the hell was he talking about? “Inventory?” And what the hell was a harbor burial? Did he mean…

“Is that necessary? Johnson’s knocked out, not dead,” Brito commented, confirming Peter’s fears. “He’s still got some fight left in him.”

“That’s not your call,” Mitch said brusquely. “Johnson is Montana’s man, not yours, and Montana said harbor burial.”

Peter tensed. He was going to blow this entire assignment. He knew it, deep in his bones.

“Alright,” Brito said, sighing. “At least Montana is more subtle than the Ox. Last I heard, he dumped a headless demi in an alley and called it a day.”

“No one’s ever accused the Ox of being a criminal mastermind,” Mitch said dryly. “Hey, did you know that’s the drop-off that got the Daredevil on our tail?”

Peter tipped his head sharply at that.

“…What an idiot,” Brito breathed, surprised.

“Yeah.” There was a hint of smugness to Mitch’s voice, like he was pleased to have information that Brito didn’t. “If I was the Benefactor, I’d’ve killed the Ox already. He’s such a fucking liability sometimes.”

“Don’t let the Ox hear you say that,” Brito said, voice thick with humor. “I was in prison with the guy. He’s surprisingly sensitive.”

Their voices grew more and more quiet as they walked further away, leaving with Peter nothing to listen to the increasingly panicked words of his fellow occupants.

There was one thing for certain. If a harbor burial was what it sounded like, Peter’s cover was immediately going to be blown. He was going to rip free of these handcuffs and tear the bag off his head. Then he was going to hang Brito upside down from a light pole and read him the riot act. After that, he was going to drag Johnson, Roy, and Ralph to safety—secret identity be damned.

And that was absolutely the wrong thing to do. There was no way Peter could stand by idly while a man was killed. But to save one man, how many more was he going to doom?

_“You’re not Spider-Man right now,”_ Yuri had said. _“You’re Mark Hoffman, and the faster you realize that, the better.”_

Yuri was right all along. He didn’t understand what he’d promised her. He didn’t get the danger, threat, and challenge undercover work was. Peter was absolutely the worse fit for this kind of position, and he was going to get everyone killed.

But he couldn’t just sit there idly, bound and blind. What was he supposed to do?

The driver side door opened suddenly. Peter froze. Ralph and Roy shut up, holding their breaths. Johnson continued to slouch over his seat. The SUV dipped slightly under the weight of a new person, and the keys went into the ignition.

Brito must have turned and looked through the privacy panel back at them, because when he spoke, his voice sounded far too close. “If it isn’t a little family reunion… any suggestions for tunes before we go out on our little road trip?” None of them spoke. Roy and Ralph scarcely even breathed. That wasn’t a 100% confirmation that Brito knew exactly who sold him out, but… it was pretty obvious.

Brito waited a few more beats. “No? Fine by me.”

The SUV jostled a bit as he turned around. A moment later, Blue Oyster Cult started blaring out of the radio mid-song, and they rolled out.

Peter lowered his head, trying to remember Hunts Point as best as he could so he could mentally map out their destination. It was hard. He didn’t have a whole ton of reasons to patrol this way, and now he was regretting it. All he could figure out was that they were moving steadily out of the Bronx in almost straight line.

He would soon come to miss that straight line. Brito was soon weaving in and out of traffic at random, as if he was trying to shake a tail. Roy leaned into him at one point, mumbling something under his breath about needing to puke. Fortunately for them all, Roy got his shit together, keeping his bile and poorly distributed rations to his goddamn self.

Listening intently, Peter started to think they were nowhere near a harbor. He had time to think, time to weigh his options.

And then the SUV came to a stop. A moment later, their door was opened, letting in the cold morning air. Johnson was tugged away from Peter a little, forced to slouch forward even more. Peter heard the jingling sound of keys. Johnson was being unlocked.

And then something reached over Johnson. Four warm fingers and a palm settled on Peter’s forearm. It was only then that he realized he was vibrating with aggression.

And that hand was not unkind.

The hand left, but Peter didn’t move. Johnson’s body disappeared, lugged out of the SUV, but Peter didn’t make a peep. Brito dragged Johnson across the sidewalk, but Peter did nothing.

Because Peter didn’t smell the sea. Because his spidey-senses were silent. Because that single warm hand told him not just that he shouldn’t move, but that everything was going to be okay.

If he strained his hearing, he could hear Brito making a very quiet phone call.

Johnson wasn’t going to die today. And neither would Peter’s cover.


	10. Chapter 10

They were coming close to hour 24 of Spider-Man’s public death. Now that the shock had finally settled, the public was collectively making moves to close this chapter of their city’s history.

Spider-Man merchandise and memorabilia were sold in droves. Formal and informal wakes were held. The media started reconstructing—and reminiscing—about Spider-Man’s most influential fights, and no less than three individuals had already claimed they were developing a documentary about the fallen superhero. Never one to sit out while there was money left to be made, J. Jonah Jameson dusted off his failed book ( _A Menace on the Rooftops: One Brave, Intrepid Reporter’s Search for the TRUTH_ ) and started marketing it again.

Other than Jameson, people were largely respectful. Someone even floated by the idea of a parade in honor of Spider-Man. Rumor had it, the mayor was considering the idea.

But this wasn’t the only rumor going around.

General curiosity and suspicion about the silence of the superhero community grew and had eventually boiled over. Before the first full day of not having Spider-Man had completed, they were already being accused of having a hand in Peter’s death. The unfortunate misunderstanding of the prior year was being thrown around as hard evidence that no superhero in New York City would hesitate to take out Spider-Man at a moment’s notice.

There was so much they still couldn’t say about that time, so much that was still confidential or still sensitive enough that it might put any number of people in danger. Even so, they were demanded to explain themselves.

Bright, shining, charismatic War Machine was tapped to be the voice of them all. Shielding them as much as he could, Rhodes paired comments on vague, ongoing investigations with requests to give them space at this troubling time. He calmly rephrased and reworded these two stances for every question thrown at him, save for one. When asked—no, demanded—to posthumously reveal the identity of Spider-Man, he delivered a flat, unemotional, and unequivocal no, much to the delight of those who liked to GIF these things.

And so the march towards closure continued. Kids sold spider-themed Converse on street corners, still wet with paint. Families shared all the stories they’d ever heard about Spider-Man. People of various religious backgrounds wondered what to put on the gravestone of a man who had no name.

Not yet, Jessica wanted to scream. Not yet not yet not yet-

They didn’t know everything they needed to know. They didn’t even have Peter’s _body,_ let alone an explanation for what happened yesterday.

And it was all her fucking fault. She was dropping all the balls, it seemed. For Peter. And for Yuri.

Yuri Watanabe was MIA, Jessica had discovered. Her precinct reported her as being on administrative leave, and her apartment was wide open and ripped apart. Ill at the fact that the woman might have met her end already, Jessica had hauled ass as soon as she saw Yuri’s home, trying to find out from her neighbors and family members where she might be at.

In the end, she came up with diddly squat, right back at square one.

All of these people were expecting her to deliver, but she had yet to accomplish anything. She didn’t find Peter’s body, she didn’t get the NYPD to cooperate, and she sure as hell didn’t pin down Yuri. Jessica was a hard ass, and she generally wasn’t in the business of pleasing people. But she didn’t like failing people, and knowing she had failed so many people with this—her allies, the Parkers, Matt, Wade, Yuri herself—was gut wrenching.

But she was used to failing. Falling. Landing square on her ass. So she knew the only thing you can do in that situation is to get right back up and try again.

So she went back to the NYPD, trying to get a meeting with anyone who would listen to her at Yuri’s precinct. This was how she found out that someone else had already—and successfully—arranged a sit-down with none other than Yuri’s very own supervisor.

Steve hadn’t been joking about pairing her up with someone, unfortunately.

Tony Stark clapped the arm of a police officer just as they entered Yuri’s precinct. “ _Wowie_ , cops sure come big these days. Slouch for me, guys, you’re making me look bad.”

Jessica tried not to cringe. And failed, probably.

Tony was dressed to the nines today, every bit of him weaponized to full rich- douche mode. She didn’t question how he could so easily get the meeting she’d been struggling with. Wherever Tony walked, doors tended to open. She didn’t blame him for that. He was born a celebrity, infamous before he ever spat out his first word.

What she did blame him for was suddenly trampling all of her investigation without warning or explanation. Once they all got the news about Peter, Tony had practically vanished. Steve had defended Tony, saying he was following his own leads, but that only made Jessica angrier. Wade was following his own leads too, and he still took the time out of his rampage to give her a hint that something was going on. Tony had just shown up at her office door carrying two lattes, claiming they were already late.

She didn’t understand how he could go from being totally dismissive of what Jessica was doing to suddenly being hands-on involved.

And she fucking hated lattes.

But she submitted to his oblivious bulldozing. She was never the one to say no to an open door. The car ride over to the precinct slowly dulled the rest of her anger, and not just through attrition alone.

It was very clear Tony wasn’t doing alright, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. 

There was a reason why the “friendly” part of “friendly neighborhood Spider-Man” wasn’t outright ridiculed. Peter was a genuinely nice guy. His allies weren’t just his allies. They were his friends too, and he treated them as such. But he also treated a handful of them—like Tony, Matt, Steve, and Reed—like older brother or even parental figures, people he looked up to. Steve and Reed were gracious about it, used to it on some level. Matt, being a pain, tried to ignore it.

But Tony? Tony was the only one who swung right back at him and treated Peter like he was his very own child. And he absolutely refused to believe that Peter was dead. The fact that Tony was suddenly cooperating with her made horrible sense. The faster they got the NYPD to cooperate, the faster they got Peter’s body. Once they verified his identity, they would be verifying that either Tony was right—or Jessica was. Or maybe none of them were.

So Jessica buried her anger. She wasn’t just sad for him. She was sad for them all.

They were ushered in like VIPs by the massive cop who had met them by the door. Despite this preferential treatment, the hair on the back of Jessica’ neck stood on end. She didn’t like how the cop kept walking behind her. This one seemed like he’d just come out of a stint as a prison guard. He had zero customer service skills. Jessica half-expected to be bitten. Or punched in the back of the head. 

Fortunately, they reached the bullpen quickly. Yuri’s office was wide open. Tellingly, her certificates and wall hangings were dumped in a box near an overflowing trash can. Her name plate had been pried off the wall, and someone had hung a piece of paper on the door that announced that this was now the office of Police Commander Thomas O’Leary.

Jessica glanced around. Morale seemed low yesterday. It was even lower today. Worse, there were people there she didn’t recognize. While many ignored them, several made forceful eye contact with her, as if daring her to start something.

Just then, Tony stumbled into her a little, then wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Jessica instantly went from tolerating his presence to wanting to punch him in the throat.

As a general rule, Jessica liked Tony. She really did. There was plenty to dislike, sure. He was irritatingly rich, had an ego the size of a building, and weirdly inspired a lot of villainy. He was also flirtatious, irreverent, and prone to pissing people off—and today, Jessica was up the plate.

But he was also head over fucking _heels_ for prim Pepper Potts, which never failed to amuse Jessica at the “Lady and the Tramp”ness of it all. He was always the first one to stick his neck out on a line, and he rode harder than almost any of them. His EQ was almost as high as his IQ, and he was one of their few allies who came back after the dust settled to make sure people were actually okay, not just saying it.

Most of them were stuck in the now, the hour by hour breakdown of the day before they laid their head to rest. But Tony? He constantly looked towards tomorrow, towards a day where he and Jessica and everyone like them could step the hell back and just be people again. He just tended to argue with just about everyone what that “someday” was going look like. She didn’t understand his vision, but she admired it. The optimism of it all. The hope.

But today, he had an arm wrapped around her shoulders, and if he leaned any further into her bubble, she was going to punch him in the throat.

He leaned in. As a courtesy, she hissed, “If you’re getting fresh with me-”

“Here’s the premise,” Tony said, interrupting. “You’re an attractive, single woman. I’m a well-known sleazebag with more money than god and twice the narcissism. _Work with me here._ ”

Something hard scraped against her upper arm, hard enough to be felt through her jacket. She froze.

Something people tended to forget about Tony Stark was that he was, in equal parts, traumatized, hypervigilant, and overprotective. And something that Jessica had utterly failed to notice was that him messing with her hid the fact that a repulsor was starting to form over one hand.

He was about one second away from blasting someone through a window. What the hell was he reacting to?

“You’re here!”

Jessica and Tony turned to the left. A man with receding, swept back blond hair approached them grandly. He had a perfect public smile and just the right amount of polite interest.

Tony aimed it right back at him. “Tom O’Leary, right?” he said. “Tony Stark.”

He offered his free hand to O’Leary , who took it with a slightly broader grin. “You hardly need to identify yourself, Iron Man,” he said warmly. His watery blue eyes moved over to Jessica. “And you are…?”

“Jessica Jones,” Tony said quickly. While his smile didn’t fade, he puffed up slightly, visibly annoyed at this. “Founder, owner, principal investigator for Alias Investigations. Also a founder and long-time member of the vigilante group, the Defenders. Personally stopped or halted the villainy of Chemistro, Jigsaw, the Purple Man, Kingpin, Lone Shark, and the Hand. You know. All those villains the NYPD failed to catch on their own?”

Jessica raised her eyebrows. That was generally not how she introduced herself, but trust Tony to be excessive.

O’Leary laughed unsteadily. He nodded once to her. “Well… Thank you for your service,” he said awkwardly. He waved a hand towards Yuri’s office. “Shall we?”

Tony gestured for him to lead the way.

What little Jessica had seen of Yuri’s office from a distance suggested someone who spent little time there. She’d had a small flat desk, a slightly outdated computer, a handful of knick-knacks and things on the wall, and little else.

Since yesterday, the room had been completely transformed. A massive desk was placed in the middle of the office. The stench of a fresh coat of paint was thick in the air. The walls were dotted with awards and pictures of O’Leary shaking hands with famous people, including a visibly confused Steve Rogers with his floppy post-defrost haircut. The computer was new and sleek, still adorned with all of the plastic coverings. 

O’Leary moved to the massive chair on the other side of the desk. A cop sheepishly fetched another chair for Jessica from the bullpen, which only served to highlight how exceedingly opulent O’Leary’s one guest chair was to practically everything else in this tiny precinct. Tony tried to offer her the nice chair, a suggestion she nipped in the bud with one icy glare.

“Not your usual office, huh,” Jessica asked flatly as they all sat.

“No, it is not. Not nearly big enough for my needs, but we all must make sacrifices.” Gag. “This precinct has gone through a lot this week, and they need my direct guidance.”

“How fortunate for them,” Tony piped up, pulling a thread loose on his chair.

O’Leary’s eye twitched. “Quite.”

Tony still had one hand on her, lightly resting under her forearm. The repulsor was still present, but it was so light. She’d always been reluctantly interested in his suit, especially after he switched to nanotech. She didn’t always get shot at but having a bulletproof sometimes-boyfriend made her envious. She always wondered what it would be like to walk out in the middle of a firefight without fear.

“From my understanding, you’ve been having a rough couple of days,” O’Leary said, something like genuine sympathy seeping into his voice. “But my precinct’s been having an even rougher time.” He glanced at the door. Then quieter, he said, “Please do not spread this, but someone’s been targeting our detectives off the clock. One was killed in his home. Another was killed on his way home. We have our suspicions that a third one was attacked as well, but we haven’t been able to locate him. To handle the situation, we’ve had to hire some new officers, and that had caused some friction-”

“So why is Yuri Watanabe on administrative leave?” Jessica asked bluntly. “Seems like you’d want all hands-on deck.”

O’Leary’s expression darkened at that. Politely, he said, “There were some questions about how she was handling the investigation. It was thought it would be better if she was benched for this. For her own sake, of course.”

Yeah. Right.

“I haven’t been able to get in contact with her,” Jessica said. “Do you know where she might be? Or what her phone number is?”

“I believe she stated that she would be out of town,” O’Leary replied, settling back into his chair. He looked up at the ceiling. “Anyway, she’s on leave. She cannot assist you. She’s not supposed to be working at all. I doubt she’ll even answer her phone.”

 _And it’s okay for you to have a subordinate out of communication while her coworkers are being murdered?_ Jessica wanted to say. But Tony’s hand was lightly squeezing. She closed her mouth. 

Tony took over. “On to what we’re actually here for. I’m afraid I may have misled you.”

O’Leary’s eyes jumped to him. “Oh?” His voice was very soft.

Tony rubbed the back of his head with his free hand. “This is actually a multi-purpose meeting. In addition to retrieving Spider-Man’s body-”

“Regretful,” O’Leary said quickly, leaning forward. “Truly. I have men on it right now-”

“Yes, thank you,” Tony said shortly. “In addition to retrieving his body, we’re also… shopping around, shall we say? The Avengers are in talks to both absorb the Defenders”—like hell they were—“and to find a different agency sponsor. SHIELD isn’t what it used to be.” Tony punctuated that with a laugh. She wanted to hit him.

But O’Leary’s eyes were gleaming with cautious interest. In this context, in this conversation, she could see why this was the gambit Tony chose. Landing the Avengers as an asset over a federal agency would vault O’Leary up in the eyes of his community, even more so than the awkward, posed photos on his walls.

O’Leary’s gaze went her, assessing. After a beat, Jessica shot him a wide, insincere smile.

Then O’Leary started talking, a waffling, polite chatter that seemed to start at saying that the NYPD couldn’t _possibly_ have the resources to sponsor the Avengers while still ending at the conclusion that the Avengers would have to add a lot more to the table for them to be interested. He wanted them to sweeten the pot. It was transparent. It was annoying. It was boring.

Tony had more patience than her, though, casually walking O’Leary through his thought process. The more Tony talked, the more confident Jessica was about his lack of commitment.

So Jessica’s attention wandered, moving from the pictures to the awards. It was convenient that O’Leary had been able to set up shop so quickly in this office. She’d moved into her new office three years ago, and she still had boxes she hadn’t opened. O’Leary, on the other hand, had been primed and ready, clearly more concerned with displaying complete ownership of the space than in temporarily replacing his captain on leave.

It stank of pre-meditation. Suspicious, as Yuri was supposed to have been put on leave for murders that had only happened a few days ago.

The new paint, the awards, the photos, and the desk weren’t the only things of value in the office. A quartz wall clock with no numbers was pinned to the wall next to the door. Frameless art canvases with depictions of New York City ate up most of another wall, and, in the corner behind them, a square marble-topped table had on top of it an antique, Asian statue, a man with elevated hands. Roughly two feet tall, he had a bare chest, articulated joints, and an angry, open-mouthed expression.

She didn’t have a whole lot of experience—or interest—in either art or history, but… she could have sworn she had seen that statue before. She kept looking back at it, squinting and trying to remember.

Tony noticed. “Like it? I’ll buy you ten.”

Jessica ignored him.

O’Leary chuckled, waving his hand. “It’s a unique piece, Mr. Stark. With transcendental historical value.”

“I see, I see,” Tony said with the confidence of a man who absolutely did not see. “And what historical value is that?”

Jessica’s eyes widened, O’Leary’s words dancing around in her head. _Transcendental_ , he’d said.

Jessica knew _exactly_ where she had last seen that fucking thing. In the possession of another dangerous asshole with an obsession with art.

“It’s a 15th century Japanese Nioh Guardian statue. The only one of its kind,” O’Leary was saying, but she could hardly pay attention.

The only historical value it had for her was the time she had her face slammed into it. Her eyes dropped to the statue’s feet, and the jagged edges that made up the platform that the statue stood on. Sure enough, there was a slightly discolored section, likely a modern repair. If she was right, it had been damaged almost ten years ago during that fateful fight that landed Wilson Fisk back in jail for good.

He’d been more pissed off at the damaged piece than he had been about being arrested. But maybe he would have been angrier at the arrest if he’d known how good the charges would stick this time around. Fisk was supposed to be behind bars for another 89 years—a relatively short sentence for all the evidence she and the Defenders had fought to preserve this time around.

Fisk had lost everything that night. His freedom, his businesses, and his stuff. Even his wife divorced him, taking their infant son away. Matt had always thought that breakup was mutual and strategic, though, designed to keep Vanessa and Fisk’s son out of the limelight of the new investigation. Yet another scheme in place from the Family Fisk.

As for his art, well, his extensive collection had been sold to a private buyer. There was no way a cop, even at O’Leary’s level, could have afforded to buy it back.

“That statue-” Jessica said abruptly. She looked back at O’Leary and paused. O’Leary’s expression no longer had even a hint of friendliness. She’d stared at it too long. “It’s nice,” she said lamely. O’Leary’s eyes were cold.

“Oh well,” Tony said flippantly. “Unless he’s willing to sell it, it seems like you’ll have to spend my money on something else.” Tony turned to her. “I know! Let’s discuss it over dinner. I make a sangria that’s out of this world. Literally.” As an afterthought, Tony turned to O’Leary. “Tom—can I call you Tom?—Tom can join us. Maybe transcendental has a price tag after a few drinks.”

It was a joke, the kind of light shallow joke Tony was infamous for in mixed company he didn’t fully trust. But O’Leary wasn’t smiling. Even worse, he must have triggered a button or a silent alarm or something because the massive cop that had led suddenly opened the door without warning or knocking. There, he waited, as unfriendly and as nerve wracking as before.

O’Leary stood, buttoning his blazer. “You should leave,” he said formally.

It took Jessica a moment to realize that O’Leary had meant them, not his loquacious subordinate.

Tony paused for a moment, then stood up too. “Of course. Guy like you has a lot of things on his calendar. Appreciate the time.” He slid a slim box free from his jacket pocket, then pulled out a business card with a stylized A. He dropped it on O’Leary’s desk. “Call me if you want to chat more about that Avengers sponsorship.”

Wondering what Tony was planning, Jessica stood too, and maybe too quickly. He flinched, turning towards her and the stranger cop. He fumbled, barely catching his card holder. Then, deliberately, he dropped it at the feet of their escort. He sighed dramatically.

“Be a doll, won’t you?” Tony asked. He pulled out his phone and started swiping away.

He clearly wasn’t talking to Jessica. He was talking to the _cop_. And the cop didn’t bend over. Not immediately, anyway. After exchanging a look with both O’Leary and Jessica, he crouched, glowering the whole way. He reached out, closing a giant hand over Tony’s little case. It was then that Jessica saw what Tony wanted her to see—the number 1422 and five clustered dots. Jessica tensed.

Then the cop stood, silently offering Tony his card holder. After a beat, Tony looked away from his phone and at his dropped possession.

There was a long pause. Then, awkwardly, he said, “Sorry, I don’t take things from other people’s-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jessica said tightly, swiping it. Her hair was standing on end. “Let’s go already. You promised alcohol.”

“Ah, a woman after my own heart.”

They got out of there. The bullpen was a blur, and Jessica’s nerves were an absolute wreck. Maybe it was just her, but _prison tattoos_ on an officer of the law? So not a good sign. Could there have been extenuating circumstances? Yes. Obviously. But between that, Fisk’s statue, MIA police captains, MIA superheroes, and Karl’s warning about secretive bait and switches with inmates…

It was goddamn suspicious. More than that, she felt like she just stomped on the toe of a sleeping giant.

Tony reached out a hand, gently guiding her back to his ride. They got in. She rounded on him immediately, but he cut her off three separate times when she tried to talk.

When they had almost half of Manhattan between them and the precinct, he finally relaxed, shaking off his half-formed repulsor like a cat shaking off dust. “Okay. Continue,” he said magnanimously.

Jessica was furious. “What. The. _Fuck_ ,” she snapped.

“As succinct as always. You must be a delight to work with.” Tony rubbed his reddened wrist. He normally had padding between his armor and his skin, she remembered. “Let’s stick with the facts, though.”

Okay. She could do that. “Going there was a mistake,” she said, sure of it. There was zero progress on finding Peter, and she would have been better off grilling Yuri’s neighbors some more. Now, worst case scenario? She had a brand new target on her back.

“No, it was a gift,” Tony corrected. “Think of all that we’ve established with this, hm? Yuri is not working with us. That, we knew. But now we know she is clearly not working with the police—or, at the very least, O’Leary. We also now know where some of our missing Ryker’s friends are at-”

What? “Wait, you knew about them?” she demanded.

“Sure,” Tony said casually, shrugging. “What of it?”

“Jesus Christ,” she breathed to herself. Louder, she said, “This is why I _hate_ working with you. You fuck off to your tower for a full day and tell us nothing about what you’re doing, then you swan in, acting like you have all of the answers?”

Tony wiggled his index between the two of them. “Um, pot, kettle? You weren’t surprised.”

Heat built up in her face. “I was trying to _verify_ the information first, you ginormous asshat. My source isn’t exactly a friend!”

“My source wasn’t a friend either, but they were a little trustworthy, so I’ll give you that,” Tony said in an easy, non-combative voice. Jessica wanted to spit nails. Something in her face must have given that away because Tony shuffled just the tiniest bit closer, saying, “Did your friend tell you about the Benefactor too?” Jessica stilled. Tony tipped his head knowingly. “I think your source is a little friendlier than you think.”

Not to her. To Peter, maybe. “Tell me what you know about the Benefactor.”

Tony turned to her fully. “The Benefactor is popular in certain circles, but said circles are very light on information. Intentionally so, it seems. The only lead on that front is that the Benefactor is said to be buying up property. That’s not exactly a super secretive process—to me, anyway—so I looked in that.”

“Do they all happen to be former Kingpin properties?”

“Ding ding ding.” He pulled out his phone and showed it to her. He flicked a finger across the screen once, and multiple screens displayed up and off of the display—each a profile on a different property.

Generously, he put his phone in her hands. She held it stiffly, afraid to touch anything. Her eyes darted from profile to profile, and she wondered distantly… would Wanda allow this device as a business expense? It probably would cost more than a year’s worth of rent on their office. At least.

“The purchases are going through shell corporation after shell corporation,” Tony continued, “and purchase decisions are being finalized by people who have been dead for at least ten years. But there are a few things they all have in common.” Tony started counting it down on his fingers. “One, they’re all former Fisk properties. Two, they’re properties that were purchased right before Fisk was arrested the second and final time. Three, the properties were purchased by known associates and friends of Fisk. Four, zero work has been done on these properties since Fisk was put in prison. And five, the initial price for all properties in their first sale was extremely nominal. Think handfuls of dollars rather than the millions they are worth.”

“Fisk turned his friends into a bank,” Jessica realized. “But with property instead of money.” Of course Fisk wouldn’t allow something as minor as a prison sentence take away all that he’d obtained through his criminal empire.

“And now he’s withdrawing everything,” Tony said. “Up to and including his art, it seems. Remember that art robbery a few weeks back? Cap, Barnes, and Wilson responded to it because the thieves had rocket boots.”

“I remember.”

“Well, the gallery owner had purchased the piece from the estate sale of one of Fisk’s cronies. It had slipped through the cracks. When one of Fisk’s guys came around, asking for him to give it back, he said hell no. The attempted theft was a bust, obviously, but just last week, the gallery owner was reported missing—and that art piece?”

“It’s gone too,” Jessica guessed grimly.

“Yup. Fisk doesn’t take no for an answer.”

Jessica stayed quiet, thinking. The first time Kingpin got put in jail was almost fifteen years ago. It was after months and months of Matt trying to break down his organization from the ground up. Matt had been alone at the time with very few allies and the Defenders hadn’t even been an idea, let alone an actual thing.

In the end, Matt saw some success in his one-man crusade. He was able to shed a light on the ugly underbelly of Kingpin’s work. But while Kingpin had been jailed, it was only for bullshit charges. He'd gotten out almost immediately, but his knowledge of Matt’s identity—still a secret at the time—remained.

They had some confrontation after that. A horrible and bloody one, according to Matt’s friends. But it seemed to result in a stalemate that had both parties backing away from each other. Fisk shifted his attention to white collar crime, and Matt stopped pursuing him. To say Matt hadn’t been happy about it was an understatement. In fact, Matt was downright moody about it, sharp and snappish when asked. By the time the Defenders were a thing, Matt refused to speak of anything remotely Kingpin, not even to his nearest and dearest.

That is, until Spider-Man limped into his office, half-dead from blood loss.

Up to that point, Jessica had always seen Matt as a voice of reason. He was as crazy as the rest of them, but he often was the one who made them think about logistics, tactics, and, of course, consequences. But after their city’s newest vigilante was almost murdered, Matt went off the rails. He went dark, refusing all contact with the Defenders as he went after Kingpin with a ruthlessness that she rarely saw in him. Luke, Danny, and Jessica had chased after him the whole way, and it was a good thing they did. The final confrontation was a mess. They had to push through an army of paid goons to get close to Fisk, and Fisk, well… he never cared much about getting his hands dirty. He fought back with a ferocity and brute strength that made Jessica wonder, to this day, if Wilson Fisk’s blood was as mutation-free as he’d always claimed.

But in the end, they had won. Fisk’s office had been lit up with the red and blues of rapidly approaching police forces. There was no way he was getting out of this one. They’d already delivered a mountain of evidence to the NYPD, evidence of serious crimes, including several international ones.

Jessica remembered stumbling, leaning on Luke and Danny. With her head injury, she’d had a hard time grasping why the fighting had stopped—or why Fisk was sitting back down in his chair, dabbing a handkerchief to his bleeding mouth.

She’d missed what Fisk said. But she didn’t miss Matt’s response.

“ _You know what you did._ ”

Fisk had looked up then. He had a new, swelling bruise traveling up the side of his face and over his bald head. “The annoying boy was one of yours?” he’d rasped. Matt didn’t answer. Fisk smiled instead, slowly and with great humor. “It’s alright. I knew our agreement couldn’t last for long.” He stood, rising to his impressive height. “Your attitude is admirable, but you have _such_ a difficult time separating personal feelings from business. But I fold. Good job, counsellor.” His eyes moved beyond Matt. “And… friends.”

The weight of his gaze on her stuck with her for a while. She dealt with a lot of scary and morally bankrupt people in her line of business, but no one made an impression quite like Kingpin. She’d been so sure she’d been marked in that moment.

But nothing had happened. Wilson Fisk had been a model prisoner. And now, out of nowhere, he was building up another criminal empire under a new name? 

“We’re making a lot of assumptions here,” Jessica said. Either they were very wrong or something had happened to disturb Fisk’s early retirement, poking a sleeping bear and unleashing him onto an unsuspecting New York City populace.

“I’ll give you that,” Tony said. “Personally, I’m only about 60% sure Fisk is the Benefactor, and that mostly has to do with the movement of his property. But if anyone could figure out a way to get criminals out of Ryker’s, it would be Fisk.”

And if anyone could turn a career police officer into a traitor, it would be Fisk. There were rumors that he had bought the loyalty of more than a few officers in his day, but when none of them were outed, it was swept under the rug. Could O’Leary be one of them? Probably. Could Yuri? Likely not. She didn’t strike Jessica as someone who could be bought.

Is that why she was put on leave? Or why she was missing in the first place? 

Jessica had thought about the so-called cop who escorted them in and out of the precinct. Yuri would have sniffed him out in a heartbeat, not that she would have had to sniff for long. What kind of self-preserving, self-respecting traitor let criminals waltz around a precinct in uniform with their prison tattoos on full display?

A dumb one, for sure. Or a very confident one who was expecting certain captains to remain out of the picture. Permanently.

“If Ryker’s inmates are infiltrating the NYPD, Yuri might soon become a very reluctant new friend,” Tony commented.

She pushed his phone back at him. “If she’s even still alive,” she muttered.

“What?”

“We’re fucked,” Jessica said bluntly. “And the fact you haven’t grasped that yet means we’re even more fucked.” Tony started to say something. She cut him off. “You and the Avengers have had your focus on space, on terrorist organizations, on killer robots—you don’t _see_ how dirty it gets on the street level.” How much they suffered to get Wilson Fisk behind bars—how much Matt suffered. Kingpin was the worst of the worst. Most criminals cheated or gamed the system. Fisk _owned_ it.

“You’re right. We don’t see what you guys see. What Spider-Man-” Tony abruptly cut himself off. He gave himself a moment, then said, “But that’s what we have been doing these last 12 months. Taking each other’s perspective, sharing each other’s resources. And it might not seem that way right now, but _it’s going to be alright_. We’ll figure this out.”

Jessica let out a dry laugh. But it was more liquid-y than she would have liked. Her hands were tight on her knees. Her knuckles were white and her eyes were burning. She sharply turned her head to the window, looking out blindly.

Several minutes passed. Then, slowly, she said, “I can’t find Yuri Watanabe. I can’t find Peter’s body. Wade’s off his rocker. The NYPD has been infiltrated with felons-”

“Okay,” Tony said heavily. “Okay, I get it-“

“My usual NYPD contact is MIA,” Jessica continued tightly. “ _Matt’s missing._ Luke’s out of town. Wilson Fisk is probably out of jail and back in action. And a fence in Soho had Matt’s personal effects in his apartment.” She turned, looking at Tony. “So please, Iron Man, spare your overly optimistic bullshit for someone it will actually work on.”

How was anything going to be alright?

-

Peter could tell today was going to be a long day.

He’d started off on the wrong foot by not getting much shut eye, but that wasn’t really his main concern here. He tended to sleep very well these days. After all, Wade approached Peter’s sleep schedule like it was his own personal responsibility. He often joyfully positioned himself to be Peter’s pillow or blanket or need du jour, despite the fact that he himself didn’t need more than four hours because of his hyperactive healing factor. With the others doing such heavy patrolling these days, Peter could even take whole nights off here and there just to destress.

Nowadays, he was probably the most well rested he’d ever been in his entire life. Not right now, of course, but before? Sure.

Anyway, the point was, Peter could last a few days with minimal sleep. It wasn’t ideal, but he was doing that—and worse—before he and Wade were a thing.

But last night’s lack of sleep wasn’t his main worry of the day. No, it was moving from one place to the next just when he’d finally been able to get word to Yuri about their location.

Brito didn’t earn any brownie points with Roy and Ralph when they got to the new place. When the hoods were taken off their heads, they immediately noticed Johnson’s absence and demanded an explanation. 

In response, Brito had toyed with a smoke sitting behind his ear. “I’ve prematurely ended Mr. Johnson’s contract with us,” he’d said absently. Johnson’s continued existence was the only silver lining in all of this, but Peter had a very strong feeling he needed to keep that information to himself.

“I’m afraid the process is rather… permanent,” Brito had said lazily. “It’s the natural consequence of failure. You understand.”

Peter, Roy, and Ralph were pushed along into a small group in some sort of parking garage. Men and women with tablets and clipboards processed them, checking off boxes. Then, they were to be hosed off—for hygiene reasons, they were told. Here, Peter could see who was new and who was not. The fighters with experience were already stripping, unequipping weapons and baring themselves with unemotional faces. The newer ones—like Ralph and Roy—were mixed, hesitantly following the examples of others or commenting, in increasingly panicked tones, that it was winter, and any such water would be freezing cold.

These comments were ignored, and it was soon clear that even the complying fighters were at risk of being sprayed too early. The Benefactor’s men followed their own schedule, it seemed, quickly hooking up a massive hose to a water faucet.

Peter stayed silent the whole time, paralyzed, his fingers hooked into the bottom of his mask. Was he really going to have to bare his face to these people? Or would he be one of the people walking around in wet clothes and wet gear in an already tough environment?

Fortunately, he didn’t have to decide. Brito sidled in, almost as an afterthought. He dropped a hand on the hose before they all could be spayed.

“Ah ah, not him,” he said quietly to the hired men. “He’s my bodyguard.” Brito turned to the group of fighters then, crooking his finger at Peter.

Peter lurched almost immediately in Brito’s direction, stupidly relieved. Ralph grabbed his elbow. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed. Peter looked back at him. “I said work your way out, not work your way _up_.”

Already half-naked, Roy was frowning in obvious confusion just behind Ralph. Peter didn’t know how to explain himself.

“Cut the umbilical cord, Santos,” Brito called out casually. “I’ll give him back to you later. Maybe.”

A couple of chuckles went around the room. Reluctantly, Ralph let go of Peter. Peter pulled free of the mass of people, stumbling to Brito’s side. Smiling a little, Brito tipped his head to the door and started walking. He expected Peter to follow.

So follow Peter did. Behind him, there were yelps as cold water hit bare—and not bare—flesh. Peter closed the door behind him, following Brito down a long, unadorned hallway.

Things were happening too fast, Peter thought numbly. It had only been about 24 hours since Henderson’s body was found on the steps of the Daily Bugle. He’d already tried—and failed—to alert the NYPD. He’d already tried—and failed—to out the true identity of the Benefactor. The only thing he’d successfully done up until this point was somehow convincing Brito he had worth. And, somehow, that worth meant Brito'd covered his behind more than a few times.

Peter didn’t want to complacently assume Brito was his ally, but that didn’t mean he didn’t hope for it all the same. Peter missed having friends.

Brito opened the next door with a flourish, stretching his arms above his head. The room he entered was full of men and women bent over computers, clustered messily in the center of the space. One person pulled free from the group, glowering.

“You’re twenty minutes late,” Mitch snapped.

Brito yawned. “Have you even looked at the traffic lately? As far as I’m concerned, I’m twenty minutes early—and you’re welcome, by the by.”

“Shut up,” said a woman wearing a headset. “We have our first DM match in months, and I will personally kill whoever’s behind any stupid banter picked up by the audio mikes!”

Oof. This lady would _not_ have been a fan of Spider-Man.

“DM match, huh?” Brito said, clapping Mitch on the shoulder. The other man subsided, but only slightly. “Should be amusing.”

“Gambling’s closed,” Mitch said, almost apologetically.

“Eh. I’ll get it next time.” Brito released Mitch and headed for the opposite door. “You know me. I’m always easy for a sure win.”

Watching him, Mitch snorted. Then his eyes fell on Peter. Peter immediately ducked his head and followed after Brito and into another hallway.

This hallway was lit from above and from either side. Glass doors on either side revealed large rooms that were either gutted or not quite built yet. Most were floorless, established with only plywood and more plywood, but at least three rooms had a glossy floor installed. High, frosted windows in all rooms let in the light of day. Due to the positioning of the sun, some rooms were brighter than others, but all were vacant.

And that vacancy made Peter’s voice echo. “What is a DM match? What are you betting on? What’s being recorded right now?” He spun around once, eyes darting around. “And what _is_ this place?”

“That’s what I like about you, Petrelli. Always asking the right questions.” Brito stopped at the end of the hallway, a hand on a pair of double doors—wood, this time. He paused, lowering his voice. “You survived your first fight. Now, you descend into hell.” For once, all humor was gone from his voice. He nodded his head to the door. “This place is where the more dangerous matches take place. With danger, though, comes higher pay offs. Take part in the gambling, and your pay off could be even higher.”

Peter looked at the door, then back at Brito. He didn’t know how to express how very much he preferred not to fight at all. His one match resulted in zero blood and zero graphic injuries—and Montana tried to kill his opponent over it. And now Brito was encouraging him to fight some more?

Peter was angry—and also really, really confused.

“Why are you telling me anything?”

Brito paused. Then he straightened to his full height, expression evasive. “What I find this operation is lacking is a clear orientation. I like my people to be well informed.”

He took three fingers and rapped them against the hardest part of Peter’s mask. Peter flinched, holding a hand over where the tapping had rattled his nose. He stumbled back.

Brito continued. “Listen up, tough guy, because I’m only gonna give this to you once. Three kinds of matches will be held here.” He counted them off. “Knockout matches. First blood matches. And death matches. Your fight with Johnson? Knockout match. You got lucky that their hands were so tied for room availability at that site. You only had to deal with cameras. While everything gets streamed, knockout matches tend to get a good deal of live audiences. First blood matches too. Very annoying, very loud. For all your showboating, you wouldn’t have liked it one bit.”

“And death matches?” Peter asked grimly, one hand still held protectively over his mask.

“Very hush hush. Streams only. Online gambling only. Rare too.” He slung an arm around Peter’s shoulder. “Which is why _we_ are going to sneak in and _watch_.” He reached out with a hand, pushing the door open, letting in a blinding light. He propelled both of them forward and into the new room. Peter stopped just in the threshold, looking around.

In another life, this room would have been home to a massive, Olympic-sized swimming pool. It currently was anything but. It was a large, deep, concrete hole in the ground. Industrial lighting from all angles chased the shadows out of it. Roughly hewn stairs took advantage of the shallow end to create an even pathway down, and sand and dirt had been tossed on the bottom along with glass shards and pieces of broken furniture. Similarly rough stands were set up on the edge of the pool, looking straight down, and they were currently filled with a series of unmanned cameras and a handful of technicians to keep an eye on them. 

Unlike the haphazard set up at the last place, these features suggested it had been here—and thoroughly tested—for a very long time. Just the thought made Peter feel ill. 

Maybe it was a good thing that the NYPD didn’t jump on his information. Just think of how many people they would have missed if they had only hit a little satellite base like the one he’d been at yesterday.

“Neat, huh?”

Peter closed his eyes to the light, pressing a hand over his mask’s eye holes. “Why would anyone want to do a death match? As a fighter, I mean.”

“Money is a hell of a motivator,” Brito said easily, sticking his hands in his pockets. He walked forward, aiming for a shaded section under a massive light. “And not all participants are willing, mind you.”

“Are any of them?” Peter asked bluntly. “I’ve asked around. The way the other recruiters operate is through extortion and kidnapping.”

“Trust me, Petrelli. You’ll know the ones who aren’t here by choice.” Brito smirked at him for a moment over his shoulder. Then he sobered.

He lifted three fingers. Again. “There are three kinds of combatants here, Petrelli. Assets are tough, valuable, and likely to make us a lot of money.” Frowning, he pointed one, blunt ended finger at Peter. “You’re an asset.” He let that sink in, then leaned against a light, casual again. “There’s also the talent. Santos and Simmons, for example. They’re here by choice, more or less, and they make up a bulk of the fighters. They’re the most numerous of the bunch, but they have the most chance of making it home by the end of their contract. Then there’s the demis. They are not here by choice, and the only way they’re getting home is in a body bag.”

Headless demi in an alley, Peter remembered. “And I’ll know exactly who they are the second I see them, huh?”

“That’s right.” Brito shot him a bare teethed grin. He flicked his lighter on and off, amused by something. “Warn your pals, alright? The way things work around here, they’re still considered talent. If they don’t play ball, they can be easily demoted into being a demi. That goes for you too.”

“Stop playing with fire, asshole!” barked one of the technicians from ten feet away. “The sprinklers are live!”

Brito lifted an apologetic hand to her, then put his lighter away. He seemed satisfied still, somehow, and he looked up as the lights started dimming. Bass heavy music filtered in, so loud Peter could feel it in his ribcage. Brito swayed closer to Peter, shouting, “Being demoted to a demi doesn’t mean you’re weak! It just means you’re on a time limit. You’ll see.”

He’ll see? Sensing his confusion, Brito tipped his head to the empty pool.

A male narrator’s voice filled up the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to our much loved series, **_DEAAATH MATCHHH_**.” After that guttural scream of an introduction, a guitar riff came out of nowhere, paired with the screams of an audience that wasn’t there. Multi-colored lights flashed around the room, sharply bouncing from corner to corner.

“That’s right, folks!” the narrator continued, chipper. “Back at it again, and for your eyes only! Let’s get this shit _started_!” This was followed by four explosion sounds, then two white lights rapidly made their way around the pool, converging on a single point next to the shallow end.

Somewhere in the introduction of this horrible show, two men had dragged an already injured third over. The light shown down on him, forcing him to squint.

Peter’s heart pounded in his ears, but not loud enough to drown out the narrator’s enthused announcement:

“We want to welcome our special guest: the elusive, the fiery, the only… _Johnny **Storm**_!”


	11. Chapter 11

This was possibly the worst day of Peter’s entire life. Bar none.

In front of him, Johnny was clocked across the face—a lucky shot, Peter desperately wanted to say. Johnny stumbled back, one hand still gripping on his collar. His feet skidded across the sand, blood pouring down his face from a forehead wound. His expression was tense and angry, and yet he kept his power from erupting outwards.

And for good reason too.

Brito said Peter would recognize a demi when he saw one. What he didn’t say was that demis were named that—named _dead men walking_ —because the Benefactor put bomb collars around their necks.

When Peter had pointed that out, the sheer cruelty and injustice of equipping a fire powered mutate with a bomb they themselves could accidentally trigger, Brito had just shrugged. “He’s a smart boy. He’ll figure it out.”

In the end, Brito had been right. Johnny had changed tactics, letting out only little spurts of fire from extremities, if at all. He spent most of the time trying to put distance between the three men trying to kill him, arms up in a defensive block.

“How the hell did they catch one of the Fantastic Four?” Peter demanded. He didn’t care how it sounded.

“Despite everything, he’s only human. He must have slipped up. Sleep deprivation’s a bitch.”

Johnny got in a couple of good shots, but he was already lagging. He was used to flying over the danger and delivering fire power from above. Johnny wasn’t great in hand-to-hand combat. He wasn’t going to survive a brawl with a bunch of hardened criminals.

Between the pulsating background music, the flashing lights, and slowing movements of one of his most reluctant friends, Peter felt on the verge of a panic attack. This was Johnson all over again, but, this time, Brito wasn’t going to swoop in with a shred of humanity. No, the only one who could swoop in was Peter himself—and if he did, so many other people’s lives were going to be on the line.

Just then, a droplet of cold water hit his left wrist. Then another hit his glove, sinking through the material to settle like an icy finger poke. Peter looked up, seeing bare pipes in the ceilings between unfinished ceiling tiles.

The sprinklers were live, the technician had said. An application of water wasn’t going to help Johnny use his fire, but it sure as hell could ruin this stream.

Head vibrating, Peter rounded on Brito. “Restroom?”

“Seriously?” Brito asked, frowning at him. When Peter didn’t budge, he waved his hand towards a door. “Port-a-potties that way.”

Peter pivoted and took off at a light jog, pushing his way into another room. As promised, the hallway outside was lined with blue and brown port-a-potties. He ran past them, ducking and diving and seeking out a familiar red switch.

This building was not a condemned disaster like the last one. It looked like someone built a recreation place and stopped halfway in the middle. Some places were more finished than others, which meant that when Peter threw himself upwards to avoid some of the Benefactor’s goons, he didn’t immediately bring down half of the ceiling tiles with him. He raced as quickly as he dared, then dropped down to the floor when the coast was clear.

Still unable to find a switch, he re-entered the pool area from the other side. And then, finally, luck was on his side. Right next to the door he’d just entered was a bright red switch.

Across the room, Johnny was getting his second wind. He’d managed to drop one of his opponents—but Peter couldn’t leave it to chance. He slammed the fire alarm.

Freezing water sprayed over the scene, creating a panic. Shock at the cold evaporated when the potential damage was realized. Swearing and hurling themselves over to the cameras, all of the Benefactor’s people ran towards the cameras, trying to quickly cover them up trash bags. The music came to a screeching halt. The match paused. Peter slid into the crowd, mingling in and pretending like he was helping. With the help of a furious technician, he carried one of the larger cameras under a large overhang. The narrator was screaming out orders, no longer enjoying himself. And, all around them, the darkness was chased away by the return of the bright industrial lights.

The sprinklers were limited to the pool area, so much of the effort after that was moving the equipment back into the hallway. Peter helped with that, keeping one eye on Johnny. Johnny had been backed up to the corner of the pool, his hands up defensively, but they were no longer attacking. Instead, everyone was working quickly to salvage the wrecked set. 

Brito, on the other hand, didn’t lift a finger. He stood there, just outside of the stand, holding a magazine over his head. His purple vest had dotted quickly with water, and it was a full shade darker. He just watched everyone, a half-smirk on his face.

When most of the equipment was out—and the sprinklers were finally shut off—Peter jogged back over to his recruiter. “Wow, that was sudden,” he said brazenly. “Did I miss anything?”

“Nothing worth mentioning,” Brito said. “The match is done. No one’s going to waste a special guest like that and not film it.”

Peter had hoped that was the case. He practically gambled on it. They turned to look down into the pool. Johnny looked miserable, but alert. “Lots of mad gamblers online, I bet.”

“Hell no.” Brito leaned back slightly, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his slacks. “We _stream_ the other fights. The death matches, they record and _pretend_ they’re streams. Those matches see the largest amount of money being thrown around for those, and the house wants to have the biggest cut.”

So that’s what Brito meant earlier when he said he wanted to bet on a sure thing. He literally wanted to cheat, and it seemed like the Benefactor had a fool proof way to do it.

That was the least of horrible things being done here, Peter supposed. “So when’s the next fight?”

“Don’t know.” Brito’s gaze drifted over to Peter. “Despite your… heroic efforts, a lot of the equipment was severely damaged. We’ll be behind schedule for a while as the techs fix what we have or buy new ones.” Brito looked up at the ceiling, then walked slowly towards the edge of the pool.

Peter didn’t follow behind him so quickly. He might have been wearing a mask, but Peter had never felt so transparent.

Brito stopped at the very edge. After a beat, Johnny looked up at him, expression tight and defiant. Peter could see now what Brito had meant by sleep deprivation. There were bruises under Johnny’s eyes. He looked exhausted. “How lucky for him that his fire triggered the fire alarm. It’s the kind of miracle that won’t work twice.” With that mildly said, Brito turned to Peter with a vague smile. “Fortunately, the fire alarms were tampered with so that they don’t alert emergency services. Can you imagine how bad it would be if the NYPD stumbled upon us doing this?”

His smile widened, as if inviting Peter to laugh. But as he said that, Johnny hit the floor, mouth bloody. One of his opponents had cracked a leg piece from a broken chair across his face. He shoved himself back up to his feet only for another to grab his hair and throw him into one of the pool’s concrete walls. Peter lurched forward automatically, but Brito got in his way—just half a step, but so obvious Peter’s whole body tensed. Brito watched Peter steadily.

In the pool, Johnny collapsed and didn’t move again, going limp against the wall. The attacks stopped, and the goon who had attacked Johnny last hauled him back up the wood stairs. He dropped him once they were out of the pool. Two more men dragged an unconscious Johnny through an open doorway and out of sight.

Peter’s chest felt tight. He could chase after them. _He could save Johnny._ More than that he could bring Johnny back to the Baxter Building to be surrounded and protected by his family and friends. But if he saved Johnny now, there was no way he was going to be able to save Roy and Ralph, let alone anyone else who wasn’t here by choice. The Benefactor’s men had wiped all evidence of them using the last site in under an hour. How much more quickly would that process go here, given the greater manpower?

Peter was frustrated. Peter was scared. But, mostly, Peter wanted to cry.

“Come on, buddy,” Brito said. In Peter’s grief, his voice sounded almost apologetic. “There’s more I want to show you.”

Peter forced himself to turn around and follow Brito as he walked away.

-

Craig Johnson, age 45, woke up slowly to the sounds of hospital machines beeping. A loud sniffle into a bouquet of flowers caught his attention. He squinted at the person sitting next to his bed. He had a hard time focusing. Unsure, he reached out a taped hand to his guest, visibly confused. “Mary…?”

After a long beat, Wade swung the bouquet out of his face. “Peek-a-boo!”

Wade spent a lot of time in his day talking to concussed people, but he could tell this wasn’t going to be one of the funnier ones. For starters, the immediate shock—and growing horror—on Craig Johnson’s face was somehow both vindicating and insulting.

Johnson lunged for the nurse’s call button. Wade intercepted him, catching his throat in his palm and shoving him back against the headboard of his hospital bed. The whole frame rattled—oopsie. When Johnson’s mouth opened, as if to call out for help, Wade pointed the bouquet at him threateningly.

“Shut your _fucking_ facehole,” Wade spat.

Johnson did just that—good boy. Then he very quietly sneezed, face reddening. Eyes narrowing, Wade looked at him, then looked at the bouquet. Then back at him. Then, sighing as if the world was out to ruin his day, Wade sat heavily, tossing the bouquet over his shoulder.

“I’m gonna give it to you straight, buddy. I’m looking for a guy. An important guy. The only important guy, as it turns out, and you’ve _somehow_ become tangled up in this web of lies.” Wade paused for a moment. “See what I did there?”

Johnson looked super confused. “No…?” he said tentatively. Then, as if offended by his own voice, he puffed up slightly, sitting up in his bed. “How did you find me?” he demanded more forcefully.

Wade steepled his fingers, giggling. Johnson blanched when Wade kicked up his bloody, glass covered boots on his clean sheets. “What a great question! I’ve got this friend. Well, this frenemy really, if you’re into the comics. See, this frenemy of mine put together _a whole list_ of people I ought to get to know. People with _answers_ about that great guy I just mentioned, Craig Johnson. In a show of unusual good will, he applied some process of elimination to that fucking list.” Wade’s voice dropped down a level. “As it turns out, a whole lot of people are goddamn lying liars who lie. Can you believe that, Craig?”

“That’s… unfortunate,” Johnson offered thickly. He was sweating.

“Right? Who knew how many sick fucks there were in the world, chomping at the bit to just _claim_ they’ve murdered a superhero? Everyone would be better off if I went ahead and _murdered them all_ , but Daddy’s short on time. Oh, for the want of a Time Turner…” Wade shook his head sadly. Then he snapped out of it. “Anyhoo, the only chatter with some substance is the chatter that the Benefactor offed New York City’s webbed darling, which is how you come into this story, buckaroo.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Johnson lied through his teeth.

“Oh, really now,” Wade said darkly. And after all that productive back and forth about the worthlessness of liars—the nerve! He pulled his legs off the bed, letting his boots hit the ground hard. Johnson flinched.

Wade stared at him unblinkingly. Then he clapped, chipper. “Okey dokey, you’re concussed. I feel you. So, please, _let me jog your memory.”_

Wade leaned over, reaching into a bag next to his chair. He lifted, then slammed a laptop in Johnson’s lap, nearly missing, well. His johnson. Wade scooted extra close to the injured man, much to his discomfort, and woke up the computer from its sleep mode. There were sixteen windows open on the screen, and the very top one was an offer for heavily discounted tickets to a Hello Kitty convention.

“Oops, unrelated. That’s, um… personal.” Instead of exiting out, Wade minimized it and mumbled a mental note to himself to remember it. Then he cleared his throat. He maximized the secured browser giving him a peek into the dark web. He looked at Johnson expectantly. When he said nothing, Wade said, “Now who is _that_ handsome devil?”

It was the kind of question that really didn’t need an answer. An asshole prompt for a well-established conclusion. You see, the focus of the screen was a video, and smack dab in the middle of it was Craig Johnson himself, ducking under a swing from a man twice his size. The real Craig Johnson stayed silent, expression mostly impassive as he watched this blast from the very recent past.

“Word is, the Benefactor is bankrolling an illegal underground fighting ring to rustle up some extra dough. And here you are, the starring fighter in at least ten of these fancy-dancy streaming fights, kicking ass, taking names, and… even enjoying it at some point, hm? _Hmmm_?”

The real Johnson said nothing, but he didn’t have to. Past Johnson was speaking loud enough for him, aiming a savage smirk at the man he had brought to his knees. He slammed a folded chair over his opponent’s head—overkill, if you asked Wade. The man was already knocked out. Wade might be an excessive merc, but he generally didn’t fuck around with unconscious or dead bodies. It just wasn’t _sporting_. But according to the saved feed, the gamblers were not just betting on who won or who lost. They were also betting on the length of the match and what kind of damage would occur along the way. Wade would bet his favorite testicle that Johnson fixed the fight in that regard to get a cut of the profits. There was no other reason to beat an unconscious person.

Johnson was hardly as sympathetic as his wounded bird impersonation made him out to be.

Wade closed the laptop with a click. “Then sometime in the last day or so, you fought some Taskmaster-looking _fuck_ , lost badly, and was promptly abandoned on the side of the road like an unwanted puppy… am I summing up your resume just right? Stop me if I’m missing any crucial details.”

Johnson’s jawline tightened. He looked away. Seizing the moment, Wade scooted just a little closer, pulling the laptop off his legs. “You’re an asshole, Craig. But you’re small potatoes. You’re a single shred of a hash brown in this breakfast spread of evil. You don’t mean shit to me. _I want the Benefactor_. So why don’t you do us both a favor and rat out your boss for me, m’kay?”

“You don’t-” Johnson swallowed harshly, shaking his head once. “You don’t understand the kind of _reach_ he has. Me getting out alive was a mistake, I’m sure of it. A mistake they may overlook. But if I talk, I’ll be creating a whole world of trouble for myself.”

What a self-serving prick. Wade had always been aware that the world sucked and that people were awful, but that truth hit him especially hard today. Peter was worth a million Craig Johnsons, and yet Johnson was the one being taken care of right now. Johnson was the one people were worried about. Johnson was the man in front of Wade. It just didn’t seem fair.

And now Wade was officially out of patience. “You’re already in a whole world of trouble, buster. My bedside manner leaves much to be desired.” Wade stood abruptly, pushing the chair out from behind him noisily. Johnson tensed, flinching away when Wade pulled out his gun, inspecting it.

“The way I see it, this can go one of two ways. You can let the Benefactor kill you.” Wade extended his arm, aiming the gun at Johnson’s head. “Or I can. Your choice.”

-

Two hands clamped around her throat.

Yuri woke up instantly. Gasping, she reared up, kicking out across the pew. A man stood over her, his face twisted in a monstrous mask as he throttled her to death. Behind her assailant, another man watched, idle and impassive as she struggled for air.

Yuri was way past being fair. So Yuri jabbed her fingers in his eyes and dug in.

Yowling, he ripped away from her, hand clamped over his face. His partner lunged in, punching Yuri across the face. She fell into the pew, then unsteadily hurled herself to the left, dodging the man as he followed up with a knife.

The other man was still screaming when Yuri lowered her head and threw herself forward at the second of the two. He rallied quickly, dropping his knife in favor of protecting his throat from her fist. He stepped back a few steps, his guard up—he’d had some hand-to-hand training she quickly noted. But not enough.

She ducked under a wide swing and landed a blow to his torso hard enough to break a few ribs. As he wheezed, she kicked his feet out from under him, then slammed his head against the corner of the pew. He went limp.

And the second he went down, the first man was on her. Blindly, he grappled her from behind, lifting her off her feet. She kicked hard, and, when that didn’t work, she braced herself on his arms, trying to push up. That didn’t work either, and spots were starting to float in her vision. He had a death grip on her and he kept squeezing. If he held on any longer, she was going to pass out.

Dimly, she registered the sound of sliding wood and shouting but more immediate was the impact of being thrown into a wall.

She hit her knee hard; her face hard. She bit through her lip and barely kept to her feet. Staggering, she leaned against the wall heavily, warm heat trickling down her arm where it had gone through the stained-glass window—yeah, that also hurt. Her head pounded, her vision was spinning, and she tasted blood in her mouth.

Behind her, the man pressed forward, arms spread out as he blindly sought her out again. 

Glass twinkled at her in the corner of her eye. There was a sliver of opportunity here, and she took it.

He hauled her back forcefully, and when he made her spin, she shoved a thin shard of window into the meat of his neck. He gurgled before he died.

She felt not a single shred of remorse.

Gathering her waning strength, she pivoted on the third man, a pale faced and sweating Father O’Brien.

Now. To get some answers.

“Captain, I-”

His eyes widened, and he choked as she grabbed him by his collar.

Stumbling, Yuri dragged the priest closer to her. “Doesn’t your religion have a parable about the consequences of betrayal?” Distantly, she thought her voice sounded like something out of a horror movie. He scrambled to grab her forearms, but she didn’t let him get a solid grip in before she pushed him to the floor.

O’Brien, to his credit, didn’t allow this to stun him. “Captain, I didn’t betray your confidence,” he swore, scuttling backwards on his hands.

“Come on, padre,” she drawled, venomously. “No need for lying here. I know how far a generous donation goes in these parts.” She yanked another piece of window out of the frame and followed him. “Did you sell me out completely or did you just have _faith_ I’d see things through?”

His back hit the wall. “I would never-”

“You need to do better than that, O’Brien,” she warned him harshly, crouching in front of him.

“I swear to everything in this world and the next that I did not open up this place to these villains.” O’Brien shouted. “You asked for sanctuary. _I gave it._ Please believe me!”

Right. Like she was going to trust him. Like she was going to trust _anyone_. Yuri hadn’t had a tail when she entered the church, and the only one who knew she was here was the lying sack of shit in front of her. The truth was obvious.

Then her phone beeped behind her. Yuri froze. She looked over her shoulder at her little nest on a pew. She stood unsteadily and went over to it. Her phone blinked at her from where it was under her jacket. She pulled it out, turning on the screen. She had hundreds of texts and emails, but only one voicemail. Hesitating, she lifted the phone to her ear and listened to the message. 

“ _Hi love, so sorry,_ ” said a familiar voice. The accent was unfamiliar, but the voice behind it was. The tone was… jarringly _warm_. Yuri stood there stiffly, just listening. “ _I left my mobile at home. But you’ll never believe who I saw yesterday! A mutual friend of ours is in town. Last I recall, he was supposed to be at the big island party—you know the one. Looks like a volleyball? But still very, uh… entrepreneurial. And majestic?_ ”

Yuri’s death grip on her rage slipped, and a twisted disbelief filtered in. Was this _really_ his idea of a coded message? What the hell was he even talking about. She had neither the brain capacity nor the oxygen to decode Peter’s message.

She played it again anyway. “ _Hi love, so sorry-_ ” She wasn’t listening. Not for words, anyway. She let the cadence of the voice of a friend wash over her. It steadied her. It centered her. It strengthened her resolve.

But it also made her suddenly very, very aware of the events of the last ten minutes. She turned slowly, looking at the mess of the scene in front of her—two dead bodies and a terrorized priest pleading his innocence. How would Peter react if he saw this?

Suddenly, Yuri’s eyes widened. She looked at her police-issued phone again, deceptively safe and allegedly un-hackable. If epiphanies could feel like the jabbing of a red-hot needle, then this was hers. The priest wasn’t the only plausible explanation for today’s attempted assassination. 

She was such a goddamn hypocrite. She beat it over Peter’s head that he was being followed from his phone, a sleek Stark number with only a handful of contacts. And she’d totally been aware at the time that she had traitors in her precinct. Why the hell did she think she was so immune?

Yuri walked away from the pews quickly, approaching the priest urgently. “I-”

But the damage was already done. O’Brien flinched, covering his head. At a loss, she stared down at him. She took the _protect and serve_ part of her oath very seriously—until things got personal, it seemed. This man, this stranger, had put a roof over her head and food in her belly, and she gave him… what? Two dead men and a day of terror?

“I’m-”

In her anger and grief at being followed and at being hunted down by the same parties that killed her best detectives, she’d been _so_ ready to get even. So ready to be judge, jury, and executioner. And she almost executed the wrong man.

“I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely.

She dropped her phone to the ground, and she ran.

-

A headache was already pounding in Tony’s head when someone slid into the open window of his car. In broad daylight. While it was moving through traffic. Tony yelped. Happy yelped. The car skidded. It was a whole big thing.

Tony’s visitor wasn’t especially apologetic about it. “Hey, man, I had a—stop screaming—moral dilemma. Can you help me out?” Tony was absolutely not screaming. And god save them from newbie superheroes.

The car straightened out, and Happy started driving again, which left Tony to the task of informing Spider-Boy that they were absolutely not in the stage of acquaintance where the kid could ask for life advice. Tony met him just the day before. And, besides, Tony gave horrible advice. This was known.

All this did was trigger a stream of consciousness rant from Spider-Kid, each word more labored and stressed out than the next. Tony listened. While he was aware that the Spiderling’s issues stemmed from the events of the last few days, he couldn’t help a growing concern. The kid wasn’t nearly as cagey and paranoid as Peter was. The vigilante in his sleek black and red spider-suit gave away a lot of personal information in just a few minutes of talking.

For example, Tony now knew that Spider-Guy lived in Brooklyn, was dreading a Calculus test on Friday, was worried about his police officer father, and was currently playing hooky from high school. Oh, and that Silk was apparently off and doing her own investigation into Peter’s disappearance.

Because that was totally what they needed—yet another person investigating and not telling people what they found.

“Stop right there,” Tony ordered. Spider-Kid did so immediately, to Tony’s surprise. “Dial back to your moral dilemma, please. I have to be at three places at once in about five minutes.”

Spider-Boy sucked in a deep, deep breath. His lens collapsed into thin slits. Then, in one rush, he said, “ImayknowhowtotrackSpider-Man.” After a beat, one white lens opened, like he was peeking at Tony.

Tony was fucking furious. “Say what now?” he asked flatly.

“A couple of years back, Spider-Man had a bad experience with Mysterio,” the kid said earnestly. “I’m sure you heard about it.”

“Spider-Man got tricked into standing in the middle of traffic and got hit by a big rig,” Tony said tersely. “How does that-”

“That’s not all of it,” the kid interrupted. “Spidey was in traffic because Mysterio made him think that he was a random old guy. He chased the civilian half-way across town before he realized what was going on. It made him think a lot. What if he had caught up with the old guy? What if he’d been tricked into thinking the old guy was fighting back?”

Tony stayed quiet. He didn’t have to guess why Peter had talked about this with the kid. Mysterio had apparently triggered in Peter a resurgence of the fear they all had, of hurting the innocents they were trying to save.

Spider-Kid continued, saying, “He decided that, if he was ever weaponized by someone else, he didn’t want the chance to be around long enough to cause damage. So he started putting short range RFID tags in all of his suits… including the ones he was loaning out to you guys. And he told me what frequency to track them with. 616 MHz.”

Meaning, if Peter was still in his suit, for one reason or another, they could find him. Even if he wasn’t in his suit anymore, that was a lead Tony couldn’t ignore.

“Shit, kid,” Tony said, pulling out his phone. “Where were you last year?”

“I would not have helped you _last year_ ,” the kid said harshly. Then, after a beat, he added grudgingly, “…sir.”

Tony already liked this kid. Whoever he was.


	12. Chapter 12

Peter wasn’t easily frightened by things. Scared and afraid, sure. But not frightened. He had a very dangerous hobby that involved beating up—and being beaten up—by the worst New York City had to offer. He rolled with the punches. He got up every time he got knocked down. He lived to fight another day. So where the hell was this icy, paralyzing fright coming from?

He was no stranger to being beaten up. Tombstone curb-stomped him once. The Rhino tackled him through a building. Mysterio ran him over with a big rig. Scorpion poisoned him. All manner of criminals shot at and stabbed –or tried to, anyway. Even Wade ended up shish-kebabing him at one point under some difficult and very confusing circumstances.

But no one ever forced Peter to watch as his insides became his outsides. No one but Kingpin. But it was more than that. If you asked Peter, Kingpin was just a different breed of bad guy. He was more than smack talk and a bad attitude. He was more than a megalomaniac egoist. There was sharp intelligence behind his crime. A careful calculus of evil acts weighed against enormous profit and occasional good intentions.

Kingpin was even _nice_ sometimes? Allegedly. For such a bad guy, he had a surprising amount of good will for people, even for the Defenders who led the charge that resulted in his final arrest. Peter just never saw it, mostly because Peter’s first words to him were a barrage of insults.

Kingpin terrified Peter in ways that few criminals did. And now, Peter was supposed to meet him. Peter would rather gargle broken glass.

It had been three hours since Johnny’s aborted death match. Brito had dragged him all over the rec center, showing him the general organization of the place. Despite the well-established set up, it was very clear that the space was designed to be even more mobile than the satellite spot. Fighters were split up in at least three different big groups, and all of them operated independently. The walls and hallways were watched less here than in the satellite site in Hunts Point. Most of the cameras and recording equipment were set up for matches, and they never left their rolling carts. Big rigs and vans were strategically placed around the building, facing out and ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Even Brito had one, a purple metallic monstrosity that he’d coo’d at and “introduced” to Peter like it was a prized pet.

Brito had been grilling Peter about his driving record when word came that the Benefactor wanted to talk to him. Peter’s lungs had seized up, leaving him choking on air. Peter rapidly covered it with a cough, which earned him a sardonic comment from Brito about if he’d been breathing long. But Brito expected Peter to come with him, so Peter did.

The office of the Benefactor was clearly meant for the director of the rec center. It was on the second story and was almost all windows. External windows were boarded up tightly, but internal windows looked out over one of the gyms that made up one of the communal barracks.

Roy, Ralph, and the rest of Peter’s unit would be sleeping in one of those gyms without him. Brito had made it very clear that he now expected Peter to stay close. He’d charmed his way into a private room that may have once been intended to be used as a janitor’s closet. It had no windows, no beds, and only one way out. Brito had a single futon for himself. As Brito’s bodyguard, Peter was expected to sleep between the door and the rest of the room.

And, apparently, that plan had raised some eyebrows with the Benefactor.

Peter stayed a few steps behind Brito, senses on high alert. He watched the armed man who closed the door, never liking it when people stood behind him.

The Benefactor—Kingpin—was hardly alone in his many windowed office. There were four other men in there with him. Three surrounded him, armed to the teeth with their backs to the wall. The fourth was, naturally, standing right behind Peter. Another two guarded the door outside. Peter’s spidey sense hummed continuously at the sight of so many assault rifles in one room.

Fisk turned away from his desk, offering a faint, genial smile for Brito. Under his mask, Peter made a face. Seeing him again was like getting punched in the throat, but only if that feeling came with a lingering disbelief. Fisk hardly looked like the man in Peter’s nightmares. He was at least ten years older, for starters. He was tired too. A little smaller than Peter remembered, but still massive. He had more wrinkles, both on his face and in his clothes.

His blazer was a size too big and had several loose threads. His white button-up shirt was missing three buttons. He didn’t look quite as put together as he used to. Peter remembered a man who wore silk and got annoyed at how people took care of their possessions. This was not that man. He wasn’t taking good care of his possessions. Hell, it didn’t seem like he was taking good care of _himself_.

“Why the bodyguard suddenly?” Fisk asked softly and without preamble. His voice, at least, was the same. Peter’s hair was standing on end.

“It’s a competitive market, fighting for your affections,” Brito said grandly, extending his arms. “I’m not the only talent agent around.”

Fisk’s smile turned wry. “Montana’s still trying to kill you, I see.”

“It’s a friendly rivalry, nothing more.”

“Well. Don’t get me involved.” Fisk moved to turn back to his desk.

Brito took half a step forward, but only half. Even that triggered Fisk’s guards to raise their rifles from where they were pointed at the floor. Eyes on the guards, Brito said, “How awkward. I was absolutely going to get you involved.” Fisk looked back at him. Brito lifted both hands in defense. “Hear me out. It’s a business concern.”

Fisk paused. Then he turned back to Brito, giving him his full attention again. “Very well.”

“I’m not sure they’re managing their inventory of fighters well,” Brito admitted.

Fisk’s eyes flicked to Peter. Then he said, “They only want the best. It makes sense that they eliminate anyone who fails to meet up to that standard.”

Peter was struck by how Fisk had responded to that—the tone, not the words. Fisk was always cutthroat, and his words reflected that. But his tone? It was _bored_. He was not at all engaged in this conversation. To think ten years’ ago, he’d been so enraged at the idea of his assets being held up at the docks that he risked the attention of international law to claim his stuff just a little earlier. Indifference wasn’t Fisk’s MO.

Brito seemed to catch on to that. “Yes, but after one loss? It’s excessive.” Fisk tipped his head, considering this. Brito pressed his point. “Some of those fighters had _potential_ … with a little polishing. To drop them after one fight gone wrong is a waste. Worse, it’s the kind of waste that’ll hamper recruitment efforts and get us noticed by the wrong people.” Brito waved his hands to the boarded windows. “Even in New York, there’s only so many places you can hide a dead body. You know that better than anyone-”

“What exactly is your proposal,” Fisk interrupted.

“Keep Montana and the Ox on recruitment detail. I don’t care,” Brito said quickly. He dared to edge a step closer. “But once we got fighters here, processed, and ready to go? Give ‘em to me.” He clapped a hand over his still slightly damp vest. “I’ll take care of ‘em. I’ll whip ‘em into shape. I’ll increase the frequency of the matches. And, on top of that, if you let me do this? I’ll double your revenue in less than three months.”

Fisk paused. His guards reacted more than he did, exchanging smirks with each other. More matches meant more gambling which meant higher paydays. They seemed eager for Fisk to agree.

And why wouldn’t he? Even Peter was inclined to say yes to Brito, and he objected to this whole damn operation. Brito was a fast talking, charismatic, business-minded criminal. If Fisk had a couple of guys like Brito in his payroll, Kingpin probably would have never gotten caught.

Fisk smiled slightly. Then he stuck out his hand. Brito immediately met him halfway. “Audacious,” he murmured. Brito grinned, an expression that grew more and more unsteady the longer Fisk shook his hand. “Articulate. Ambitious. Assertive.”

Fisk paused. His grip on Brito’s hand suddenly tightened. Peter’s spidey sense flared sharply. Then Fisk’s eyes flicked over to Peter again. “Altruistic?”

“…What do you mean by that?” Brito challenged, voice dropping. Fisk swelled to his full height, and still, Brito stood there, back tight and shoulders low like a cat ready to get into a fight. Fisk’s guards shuffled uneasily, and Peter found himself standing right at Brito’s back. He hesitated still, struck by the David and Goliath aspect of it—tiny Daniel Brito squaring up against massive Wilson Fisk.

Peter wasn’t sure what was happening, only that it wouldn’t bode well for what he was trying to do here. He was frustrated. It didn’t seem fair that a damn close door conversation would be the thing that completely ruined his undercover assignment.

Fisk seemed amused. He opened his mouth, but he didn’t get a chance to put words to his suspicions. The boarded windows behind him exploded inward, shooting dust, bits of wood, and freezing air into the room.

“ ** _Surprise, bitch!_** ”

Fisk stumbled back under the weight of another man, but before Peter could see who it was, Brito jumped back and into Peter, knocking his mask out of place. As he panicked and tried to fix it, Brito brutally and abruptly soccer mom-ed him to the wall until the both of them were well away from the chaos.

But Peter knew that voice. Peter had dreamed of that voice. He yanked his mask back in place in time to see Wade hanging on the back of Fisk’s shoulders, a massive hunting knife buried in the meat of one arm. Shouting, Fisk’s guards pointed their guns at the duo, but didn’t pull the triggers. With the way Fisk was spinning, trying to knock Wade off of him, there was no chance they wouldn’t accidentally shoot their meal ticket too in the process.

Then Fisk reached up, grabbing Wade by the head in one massive paw. Wade’s muffled “uh oh” would feature in Peter’s nightmares for years to come. 

Fisk ripped Wade off of his back, throwing him to the floor. The guards took their chance there, firing their weapons, but they stopped quickly when Fisk was suddenly there too, his face twisted in rage. Peter pushed forward then and was shoved back even harder. So he did nothing as Fisk stomped on Wade’s chest, then on his head. Then he dropped down to his knees and started punching Wade again and again.

Pinned to the wall by Brito, Peter realized he was watching Wilson Fisk beat the love of his life to death. He went numb.

After a minute passed, Fisk stood back up, taking in a deep breath. Blood was splattered all over his suit, but he barely winced as he yanked Wade’s knife out of his arm. He tossed it aside carelessly, turning back to his guards with a mild expression. This clearly was not his first assassination attempt. But Fisk like this, blood stained and calm, was more like the Fisk Peter knew—brutal, cruel, and exacting in his punishments.

Peter didn’t realize how deeply Brito’s nails were digging in the skin of Peter’s wrist until they were gone.

“We’ll have to pull up stakes sooner than expected,” Fisk said evenly, cleaning off his hands. “If this idiot is here, more idiots are soon to come.” He was presented with a first aid kit by one of his guards. He took a wad of gauze and clamped it down on his wound. Meanwhile, Wade was dead and bleeding on the floor. “You don’t have a very good bodyguard.”

Brito shoved his hands in his pockets. “Are you kidding me? He’s fantastic. Look at me! I’m scratch-free, unlike you.”

It was a ballsy sort of thing to say, Peter would think later. With more distance and less to grieve, he’d admire it, even. Brito wasn’t tiptoeing around Fisk. Never did.

And Fisk seemed to appreciate that, on some level. He eyed Brito for a moment, then a stiff, silent Peter. Then he shot his guards a considering look. “You’re right,” he said. Then he called in the guards outside. “Who was in charge of securing my office?”

Two of his guards slowly raised their hands. Fisk nodded shortly. “Your services will no longer be needed.” He looked at the others. “Collar ‘em.”

The guards were knocked to their knees and disarmed. Guns were pointed to their heads. Excuses were made. Another guard left and came back with a box, pulling out the bomb collars of the demis. At the sight of them, the ex-guards tried to fight off their former co-workers, pleading with Fisk at the same time.

“If you can let someone like this psychopath get so deep into my property without triggering an alarm, then you don’t deserve any of my pity,” Fisk said firmly. He was slipping back into apathy. Whatever energy he seemed to have in his fight with Wade was abruptly gone.

“But Kingpin, please!” one of the guards begged.

That volcanic temper flared once more. Fisk kneed his own man in the face, knocking him flat on his back. “Do not call me by that name again,” he snarled. The man only groaned in response, spitting out teeth.

Quietly, Fisk’s guards dragged the newly collared demis out of the room. Fisk sighed, rubbing at his face. He turned to Brito. “We’ll have to move.”

“That’s too bad. I liked this place.” Brito jerked a thumb at Peter. “Let me have my guy clean up the riffraff for you, and you and I can walk and talk. Iron out some logistics.” Brito stepped over one of Wade’s legs, making a face. “Get some air?”

Whatever suspicion Fisk had about Brito’s intentions had faded. “Very well.” He walked out of the office, squeezing the back of his neck.

“Great,” Brito called out to him cheerfully. “Be right there.”

The second Fisk’s bulk crossed the threshold, Brito immediately pivoted, shoving an arm in Peter’s throat. Peter let it happen. The wall hit his back. Peter looked down at Brito with zero feeling.

“For fuck’s _sake_ , Petrelli,” Brito barked. “You show that kind of reaction again, you’re dead. Understand?” Later, Peter would remember the sharp-edged panic in Brito’s voice.

But in the moment, all Peter could think about was Wade. He struggled to explain it. “Wade,” Peter breathed. “He’s-”

“Yeah, tough guy. Wade’s dead.” Brito leaned a little less on Peter. His arm felt less choking. “But he won’t be for long. _You know this_.”

Of course Peter knew this. But the fact that Wade would eventually be up and at ‘em didn’t change the fact that he was _dead_ and still on the floor. That he’d died in pain, and that all Peter did was watch.

Brito slapped his mask lightly when Peter started looking around him. “Hey. Remember the port-a-potties? Pick him up. Take a left instead of the right. That’s where the unwilling are held-” Brito cut himself off when Peter started craning his head again. “ _Listen._ There will be a cage.”

“A c-cage-” Peter said thickly, trying to follow.

“There will be a cage, and Deadpool will be in the cage,” Brito said firmly. Then, quieter, he said, “Or more than you and I will face the consequences of crossing the Kingpin.” He was silent for a moment. All Peter could hear was his own ragged, heavy breathing. Brito’s voice softened further. “Can I trust you to do that, Peter? Can I trust you to do this?”

There was a cage, a cage that Wade would have to be put into. They were moving because Wade was an Avenger, and where there was one, there was always another. Peter’s cover wasn’t blown yet because he was going to put Wade in a cage.

He still had time to save them all.

“Good,” Brito said at Peter’s jerky nod. “There’s a wandering demi no one will touch without facing the wrath of the Benefactor. He’ll find you first. He won’t be able to help it.” Brito quirked a small but rueful smile. “It’s against his nature to ignore the suffering of people in need. Go to him. He’ll show you the rest of the way.”

When Peter just nodded again, Brito clapped the side of his mask and headed out, leaving Peter with Wade’s body.

It took Peter a full minute to peel himself away from the wall and kneel next to Wade. The stillness of this deeply lively person—a person he loved so much—was disturbing and nauseating. The only bright spot in this whole mess was that Wade would breathe again. He couldn’t say the same for Johnny or Ralph or Roy if he screwed up.

Peter sucked in a shaky breath, mumbled an apology, and hauled Wade over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

He walked out of the office and back down to the other parts of the rec center. When people saw him, they blanched. Even Fisk’s people gave him space. It seemed like hauling Wade around did more for his reputation than his gear or his connection to Brito. He walked past them without comment, shoulders tensing as they whispered behind him.

_What happened? Who was that? What did this mean?_

He made his way back to the hallway of unfinished, glossy rooms that would lead him back to the pool area.

He stopped. On the other end was another man. He approached Peter with even, familiar footsteps—bare feet padding against exposed wood. Hands tightening on Wade, Peter held his breath.

“Great,” Matt said. His hair was wild, and his sunglasses were gone. His sightless eyes looked through Peter grimly, even as his mouth pulled into a parody of a smile. His neck was ringed by a thick coating of yellowing bruises—and, of course, a bomb. “Thought I heard rumors Wade was sniffing around.”

He took another two steps forward, still with that awful, sardonic smile. The light from the windows lit up his face. Then his head tipped sharply as he picked up on something he had missed. The smile fell, and all color left Matt’s face.

Peter’s cover was blown. While his spidey suit was designed to confuse people who had senses like Matt’s, his current gear was not. He might as well have been wearing an olfactory nametag.

Matt dropped the attitude, closing the gap between them in several large steps. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “You, of all people-”

Heat built up behind Peter’s eyes. “I can say the same to you,” he hissed, voice thick.

They collided then, sort of. Matt grabbed his arm, and Peter got a fistful of his dirty shirt. Peter had never been so close to crying until just then, and the sight of a familiar face had done it. Everything about today crashed on his head in a heap. Wade was dead and Johnny was going to be killed and so many people were in danger and everything was so fucking awful-

But then Peter heard something. Matt did too. Footsteps. Two people were approaching, and there were very few people Peter trusted here.

“Shit,” Matt said. “Here. Look intimidating or something.” Who did Matt think he was talking to? “Shit. _Hide, then._ ”

Peter unloaded Wade off of him and shoved him at Matt. Then he looked up, scanning for opportunities. Seeing a small opening in the unfinished ceiling, Peter leapt into it, clinging to the outside of an exposed ventilation shaft.

Matt leaned Wade against the wall just in time for two of Fisk’s men to walk into the hallway. Both were armed, and they both looked at Matt critically.

Matt ignored them, pretending to struggle with Wade’s body. Peter watched from above. He could see the moment the men made their decision. All there was in this hallway was a demi no one was allowed to touch and a dead man.

Nothing to see here.

They walked by, marching down the hallway and passing through the next door.

Once they were gone, Peter immediately dropped down out of the ceiling. Matt stopped struggling under Wade’s weight, but Peter still slung Wade’s other arm across his shoulder. Wade didn’t have a heartbeat. Not yet. His spine was aligned… wrong. But his arm seemed to tighten around Peter briefly, just once. Likely just a reflexive reaction from a body that was pulling itself back together.

It gave Peter hope nevertheless. “You got a plan?”

“Not yet, no,” Matt said. They walked down the hallway, Wade between them. “We can’t play by the Kingpin playbook here. He’s different. Desperate. How long have you been here?”

Peter wasn’t sure. “Almost a day?”

“And that’s a day too long,” Matt replied, voice lowering. “I cannot begin to express how much I would like you to leave right now. But if you’re here, you’re not here as _you_. You must be undercover, then… there must be some reasoning for it.” He looked at Peter over Wade’s bowed head. “You are undercover, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then undercover you have to stay,” Matt said firmly. “No telling what would happen if anyone else knew you were here. And I hate to say it, but you leaving might cause some issues too.” Yeah, Peter had picked up on that too.

They reached the door. Peter felt Matt tugging Wade away from him. “Give him to me.”

“But… Wade,” Peter protested, panicking. His hands stuck to Wade’s leather suit.

“I’ll take care of him,” Matt said brusquely. “I promise. Now let go.”

Peter didn’t want to let go. It took a lot out of him to release Wade. Without him, the insecurities raced in. Why was Wade here? Was it a coincidence? If not, didn’t Wade read Peter’s letter? What was Peter doing wrong?

“Johnny’s here too,” Peter said, backing up a step. Matt was not a small man, but Wade made him seem that way.

“I know,” Matt said grimly. “But he’s not the only one around here that needs protecting.”

Peter appreciated the like- minded sentiment, but that appreciation was dulling by the second. Specifically, every second he spared to look at Matt. “Well, Brito did say you couldn’t help going to people in need.” Matt looked like hell.

“What a glowing endorsement from a man who works very hard to avoid me,” Matt said dryly.

Peter ignored that. “He said no one dares to touch you.” He reached out but stopped when Matt pulled his head back. “So why are you so hurt?”

In addition to the bruises on his neck, Matt’s left eyebrow was split. While it was scabbed over and held together with stitches, the skin around it was yellow and stiff. It would scar.

“Kingpin has bad days.” Matt said simply. “But I’ve figured out how to deal with them. Even water will wear down a mountain eventually. Why do you think there’s so few death matches these days?”

Matt’s tone had turned defensive, like he expected Peter to criticize his methods so far. But that was not the reason Peter was upset.

Matt had been here for so long—and Peter hadn’t even realized he was missing. What a shitty friend he was turning out to be.

“Matt-” Peter said heavily, guilty.

“Go,” he ordered. After a beat, he patted Wade’s chest. “I’ll make sure your boyfriend is alright. Besides, I hear Fisk’s men. We’re moving again. They’ll want to know where you’re at.”

Matt was right. Peter had dodged all other threats to his cover before this point. Now that he finally had a solid ally with a proven track record, it was not the time to slip up. Peter needed to be patient. Peter needed to bide his time.

Reluctantly, and sparing one last look at Wade, Peter walked back to the door at the end of the other hallway. Once again, like he was making the right decisions, but in the wrong order.

-

Wade was alive before he was truly mobile. That part sucked. Always did. This time around, getting his head smashed in probably killed him before his neck broke. So his head healed first. His neck, on the other hand, was dragging its metaphorical ass.

Wade’s pain threshold was ridiculously high. Had to be. But this shit hurt in a different kind of way. After years of being treated like a mangy, zombified ferret with bad BO, he was fucking spoiled by the attention he got after he kicked the bucket. Last time he died, he woke up in a bed at the Avengers Compound, hooked up to useless painkillers. His pillow had been fluffed. His toesies had been covered. And, best of all, at his elbow was one (1) sleeping, fluffy haired spider guy—and it hadn’t taken much to encourage him to join Wade and his comfy pillow.

This wake up, though? It was shit. No pillow, no painkillers, no blankets, and, worse of all, no Petey.

He wasn’t even horizontal. He was fucking vertical, chained to a wall in a windowless van.

And because of his neck, all he could see was his goddamn pecs. And the fact that some fucker had taken away all of his gear, including his katanas. He didn’t even have his utility belt, which made him feel very naked. How monstrous! You just didn’t touch a man’s utility belt. You just didn’t.

Wade blew out an irritated breath, then closed his eyes, willing his healing factor to hurry up.

Another ten minutes went by. He started getting a comfortable tingliness in his fingers—oh good, no need to regrow those. Another ten minutes went by, and something clicked painfully in Wade’s neck. He jerked. Then the van shook, and the backdoor opened. Wade stayed still and silent. Limp, like a toddler who didn’t want to take a bath.

Wade got two neighbors tossed in with him before they too were chained to the wall. The backdoor closed, leaving them with only the ambient light from the windshield. Someone smacked the van from outside. Wade heard a muffled shout that they were ready to go.

Ready to go where? Wade lifted his head carefully, trying to be gentle with his newly healed neck. Left. Then he looked right. Then he looked left again.

“Sticking the dream team in one van? Is this lazy writing or plain stupidity?”

His left neighbor flinched at the sound of his voice. “Ugh, stop talking,” Johnny Storm hissed, cringing.

Wade did the exact opposite. “Come here often?”

“Don’t pin this on me. I picked a fight with the wrong drug dealer last night. _Leave me alone_.”

Delighted, Wade looked to his right neighbor. “What about you? You’re looking distinctly like a squash about to head in a garbage bin.”

“Interesting description,” Murdock replied.

“What I mean is you look bruised,” Wade said helpfully. His voice dropped a level, darkening. “But you also look like you were allowed to heal, unlike hot stuff over here. His concussions have their own concussions.” As if to punctuate this, Johnny groaned, trying to move further away from Wade. “What’s your role in this, big guy?”

“I don’t like that implication, Wade,” Murdock said flatly. “Especially since I’m the reaso you’re not being transported to the next location in _three separate boxes_.”

Wade opened his mouth. Then he considered this. He changed the subject. “What’s this about a _next location_. What happened?”

The answer came from Johnny instead. “Some _idiot_ tried to assassinate the Benefactor with zero back-up. That’s what happened.”

“Be quiet,” Murdock hissed.

The backdoor of the van opened. In came Wilson Fisk.

There wasn’t a delicate way for a guy of Fisk’s size to come into such a small space. Even the three of them tested the capacity of the back of the van, and they were seated and restrained. Still, Fisk found a way, shuffling towards a metal box across from the three of them. He sat on the edge of it, gazing at them expectantly. “Gentlemen.”

Johnny was quiet—unusual for him. But Murdock was quiet too. Wade whipped his head back and forth, realizing the two of them had leather and metal collar around their necks. Both were thick, identical, and had small flashing red lights.

Wade clapped a hand around his own bare throat. Then said, “Trivia time! What do you, Rhett Reese, Paul Wernick, and Ryan Reynolds have in common?” The answer was, of course, a kinky fixation on collars as plot devices. “I’m feeling kind of left out, Willie! Kinda like that one time that everyone but me was invited to my 5th birthday party.”

Wade knew why he wasn’t wearing one. Unlike that sexy number in Deadpool 2, a bomb collar just wasn’t an effective deterrent for him.

Fisk raised an eyebrow. “I would take care not to mock my methods. I could use them at any moment to teach you a lesson in when to speak.”

“Oh baby, if you could manage that, you’d be a miracle worker. People have been trying to shut me up since birth.”

“So you would think nothing if I activated a collar right now?” Fisk nodded towards Johnny. “I could make you kneel in the remains of Mr. Storm here for the next three hours before we reach our new destination.” In Wade’s peripheral vision, he saw Johnny shift. His face was pink from anger and poorly hidden fear. Wade opened his mouth, then he hesitated.

Wade didn’t care for Johnny, but he sure liked Ben Grimm. It would break his rocky little heart if Johnny got his head blown off. Peter would also be upset, but it wasn’t like Peter was around to judge Wade for his life choices.

Fortunately, before Wade could dig too much deeper in this spiraling train of thought, Fisk spoke again, saying, “But all of that would be a waste of my resources. Frankly, Mr. Wilson, you're just not that interesting to me.”

Wade blinked. Then he blinked again. He turned to Murdock. “…You really gonna let him roast me like that? What happened to bros before foes?”

Murdock’s arm twitched, then he shot Wade a murderous expression. That was the look of a man who would happily shove him in the middle of traffic.

“Mr. Murdock is well aware of the consequences of his actions,” Fisk said slowly. “Unlike you, Mr. Murdock is worth my time. His motives are straightforward, admirable, noble. Naive. For people like him, a more subtle pressure is required.” Murdock’s expression went completely blank. “But a man like you, Mr. Wilson, requires blunt force. Allow me to apply it."

Fisk shifted, and Johnny flinched reflexively, his chin ducking down. Fisk spared him a look, then leaned forward so much, Wade could feel his breath. Then he pulled Wade’s hunting knife (hi, knife!) out of the inside of his pocket. He eyed it for a moment, then shoved it so deep in Wade’s stomach, it went out the back and scraped the wall of the van.

Wade lost his breath. Much ouchies. 

“I've decided that a man of your talents will be entertaining... one way or another,” Fisk said. He started twisting the knife slowly. It burned. “But if you chose to interfere instead, to attack me once more, I will build you a coffin of metal. I will weld it shut with you inside. I will wait until you’ve died at least once. Then I will poke holes in it to give you hope. Then I will take your coffin, and I will drop it in the Atlantic so you can spend the rest of eternity drowning, dying, and drowning some more.” Fisk paused, then he ripped the knife out of Wade. As Wade gasped raggedly, he said, "Do I make myself clear?"

Wade swallowed harshly. He wasn’t especially claustrophobic, but the picture Fisk was painting was very vivid. “Yes sir,” Wade said. Then- “Can I keep the knife?”

Fisk’s face was a picture of disbelief. Then he shut it down. “No,” he said. Then he got out of the van. He tossed Wade’s knife to one of his goon’s, adjusting his jacket. “Get comfortable, gentlemen. Our next stop will not be as hospitable.” The van doors shut, darkening the space.

Wade groaned softly, leaning forward as much as he could. His stomach was already healing, of course. Getting stabbed was child’s play compared to broken necks and being ripped in half. But, boy, was that uncalled for…

“Hey, man,” Johnny said, “are you okay?”

“Peachy,” Wade replied shortly. “Missed all the major organs—except for the most important one, of course.” Johnny made a face as he tried to understand that. Wade turned to Murdock. “What's he got on you? Your BFF? Your Nightingale? That girl from _True Blood_? Come on.”

Murdock looked tired. “Only the lives of everyone else wearing these bombs. He's promised to kill me last.” That was hardly _subtle pressure_ for a superhero with a guilty conscience. Murdock shook his head. "Just play your role, Wade. I'll think of something."

“To hell with you. I’m making my own way out.” _After I kill Wilson Fisk_ , he promised himself silently.

Murdock was already glaring at him. “Hey, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t rock the boat. The reason he hasn’t taken a more permanent solution is because Brito convinced him that your vendetta would make for good entertainment.”

“Since when has Fisk been interested in entertainment?” Johnny asked. “I got the impression he was too sophisticated for this kind of shit.”

All around them, cars started up. Some big, some small. The roar of engines was unmistakable, but their van still didn’t have a driver.

“Gambling, blood sports, illegal cage matches… it’s certainly not his MO,” Murdock admitted over the noise. “Sure, he probably funded them before, but he’s never been so hands-on. It was always strictly business. Fisk is… different this time around.”

“Any idea why?” Johnny asked, leaning forward.

“I have my suspicions,” Murdock said, tracking something outside of the van. Then he said, “Two weeks ago, the former Mrs. Fisk came to my offices for a consultation.”

“Did he threaten her?” Wade asked.

“Please. Vanessa Fisk is no innocent,” Murdock said with a surprising well of bitterness. “Vanessa barely got away with a few years for what she did to help Fisk when he was still Kingpin. She did her time and rolled right back out into high society with no one the wiser. Never did convince her to testify against her husband either.”

“So what provokes a guy like Kingpin to come out of retirement?” Wade asked, digging for information.

“Overinflated egos colliding,” Murdock said dryly. “A young DA visited Ryker’s and took a tour. He very loudly made comments about how Wilson Fisk was a muzzled, washed-up, has-been of a criminal, and that the only reason why he’d been successful for so long was because of the general incompetence of the NYPD.” Murdock shrugged. “Fisk politely asked him to recant his statement, and the DA refused, digging in his heels. Probably wanted to be seen as tough on crime. But you can be tough without being rude, which was a lesson this young DA unfortunately _didn’t_ get to learn. Fisk made a call. A week later, someone cut the DA’s brake line, and the DA slammed into the side of a bus.”

“Holy shit,” Johnny said, eyes wide.

“Everyone knew he did it, but they were having difficulties proving it,” Murdock went on, rolling his shoulders. “And Fisk had been such a model prisoner before that point, the warden just wanted it swept under the rug. But Vanessa Fisk didn’t need proof. Arranging the hit of a DA was one step too far for her. She had worked hard to rebuild her life. She begged Fisk not to follow through. She felt it was the point of no return. She was afraid. Afraid for him, afraid for herself. Afraid for their child-”

“And killing Spidey?” Wade spat, interrupting him. “Where does that fit in to her morals?” He thrashed in his chains for a minute, furious. When nothing gave, he turned on Murdock again, teeth gritted. “I don’t give a shit about your guilt, choir boy. I don’t feel bad for Kingpin. _I will never feel bad for him._ ”

Especially if there was any truth to the rumors that Fisk killed Peter.

As soon as that thought fully registered, Wade froze.

Was he actually… _admitting_ that there was a possibility? Wade had entered into this mess with the full confidence—nay, the absolute _conviction_ —that Peter was still alive somewhere. But he recognized this spinny, numb feeling of despair. He had hoped the world would have evolved a way to kill him before he felt it again.

“There are more important things in this world than revenge,” Murdock said finally.

“Like what?” Wade asked, only half-sarcastic.

“Like getting out of here and getting some actual backup, you prick,” Johnny bit back. “We’re not the only prisoners here.”

Wade looked at him, then at his collar. Of course. Superheroes were rarely motivated by physical threats alone. Now that he’d seen others in peril, Johnny was grounded as if you’d nailed his feet to the ground. All the collar did for him was remind him that his powers weren’t an option. No, he was biding his time. They were all biding their time, even Murdock with his yellowing bruises. Maybe Wade needed to take a page from their books.

Ooh! Lightbulb moment. “So you’re saying all the people without your fancy accessories are Fisk’s crew? Damn. Sure makes it easier to figure out who to kill.” It was like a reverse ID badge, except theirs just said ‘end me now’.

“It’s not that black and white,” Murdock said slowly. At the same time, Johnny said, “I’m starting to understand why Stark pitched a fit about you joining the Avengers. Spidey wouldn’t like you like this.”

“Spidey’s not-” Wade gritted his teeth, ending on a lighter note. “-here.” He was slipping. Time to practice some positive affirmations. Under his breath, Wade whispered, “Peter is out there. Peter is alive. Peter is out there. Peter is alive-”

“Great,” Johnny said out loud, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Why didn’t anyone warn me he talks to himself too?”

Wade ignored him and kept going. Murdock, the only one in this damn van who could hear him, didn’t say a single word.

-

Two elderly women passed a shadowy alcove in a long apartment complex hallway. “First swatting, now sparking,” sniffed the first one. “Will the young never learn?” She said this as they passed a unit door with police tape crossed over it. The second woman had her scarf pressed up against her mouth. The hallway reeked still.

Once they rounded a corner, Yuri stepped out of the alcove, looking down the hall. She wished she was just dealing with sparking.

Sparking was a new crime in New York City. Usually seen in other boroughs, the crime involved dropping firecrackers on porches or in trash bags before the culprits ran off. It didn’t tend to result in anything but angry homeowners and property damage, especially since the teens who committed the crime did so intentionally after ringing doorbells a hundred times or mooning security cameras. It was a relatively easy type of case to close. Still incredibly fucking stupid, though. 

Yuri pushed past the police tape with the back of her hand, entering slowly. They’d responded fast. Fire retardant was thick in the air, and melted plastic and flakes of paper made a circular mess on the floor. Sparing it only another glance, Yuri quickly cleared the unit for other people. It was empty, and the curtains were as closed as she left them.

Her enemies probably didn’t expect her to backtrack, but she couldn’t dismiss the fact that they knew about this place. If she was being tracked the whole time with that damn phone, they would have noticed that she stopped here. Beyond that, she’d used precinct funds to rent this space for six months for Henderson. There was a paper trail a mile long tying her to this space, but she had assumed it wasn’t going to be a problem because she _assumed_ her own people wouldn’t come after her.

Hell of a day to learn about the dangers of assumptions.

Dreading it, she went to the deep freezer. Taking a deep breath, she jerked it open. It was obvious that the people responding to the team hadn’t looked much deeper than the fire because in that freezer still sat a dead man in a red and blue suit. Yuri closed it quickly. Luckily, Peter had contented himself with the food available in the kitchen and had never thought to check for more.

She turned, then sat on the floor, leaning against the freezer. “We bit off way more than we could chew, Henderson,” she said quietly. She then reached into her pants. She grabbed her gun, checked it, and made sure it was loaded. She was not going to be snuck up on again.

She pulled her knees closer to her chest, leaning one elbow against the top of them. She rubbed the bridge of her nose with her free hand. She was officially out of time and out of resources. Worse, she had no way to back Peter up and no way to contact him now that her phone was on a church floor.

This was so fucking unacceptable, but she had no idea where to start mopping up the mess. So she was back here, and she was going to sit with Henderson until she died or came up with a new idea.

Whichever came first.

-

The Benefactor’s new base was a business building with its own underground garage. Peter didn’t appreciate this as much as Fisk’s men did. The big rigs, vans, and SUVs entered the garage at all different angles at all different times. Peter was in either the second or third wave, one of twenty men crammed in the cargo space of a big rig. After giving Peter another packet of that horrible but filling granola mix, Brito left him behind. He opted to drive his own van by himself and was one of the very first people to arrive.

This change was quick and fast. Apparently, the threat of the Avengers spooked everyone. If anyone had any doubts that this would get them off their tail, they kept them to themselves. This was probably for the best. Fisk’s armed guards were especially sensitive at the moment about failure, given Fisk had just demoted two of their rank to demis. There was no loyalty amongst them, but it was clear they thought they were immune from such actions.

Peter tried to keep his head down. But instead of being marched off to join his unit, Peter was tagged to help bring in equipment. Apparently, this space was new and not set up for them yet. The Benefactor’s hired technicians were wielding blueprints like blades, aggressively trying to figure out how to set up the space. They especially bemoaned the loss of the pool and the staging area it had become. While hauling cameras, Peter caught a glimpse of the dilemma. The new space was an office building with many floors and few, big communal areas. Unless they got creative, they were going to have more matches like Peter’s first—cramped affairs with few options, no audiences, and only a few cameras. Given how theatrical they liked to make the death matches, this wasn’t going to work for very long. No direction had been given from up top.

The one silver lining of the new place for them was that they would be able to hook up to the building’s infrastructure. They could leave the industrial lights and generators in the garages. This place had lights, electricity, running water, and a pre-existing security system that covered most hallways and most rooms in the space. 

Peter absorbed all of this information silently. He was in a pretty good mood. According to the chatter, Wade was already awake again, and he’d spared no time annoying the hell out of Fisk’s men. On top of that, with the addition of Wade to the team, they had quite the party to take down the Benefactor’s operations from within.

There was only one problem.

Well, several problems, actually. The biggest problem was the bombs, but Peter had been chewing over that since he learned what a demi was. From his understanding, the collars were the brainchild and pet project of Wendy Conrad. While anyone could put a bomb on anyone, she was the only one who could take them off or trigger them to explode. He’d watched her tease another hired goon by slapping a collar on him and taking it off with one swipe of a sleek gray card. The guy hadn’t appreciated the prank—apparently, Wendy wasn’t always teasing. The other side of the card had a button that signaled the denotation of all collars within a certain radius, and she wasn’t shy about demoing that functionality either.

With time or better resources, Peter could probably replicate the card and start freeing demis on his own. But in the absence of that, Peter knew he would have to just take hers. It was too bad Brito was a bad guy. He was about one more conversation from charming an additional card off of her. If he did that, the power of life and death for any demi would be in only the hands of three people: Brito, Wendy, and Fisk himself.

Which brought Peter to his next problem: people. It was really difficult to tell who was friend or foe here. He didn’t really care who was a criminal and who was n't. What he did care about was who would help or who would hinder. He was fairly certain that all of the demis would jump at freedom. Even the worst person would suffer psychologically from being reminded every second of the day of their imminent demise.

But what about everyone else? He knew from Roy and Ralph that many of the recruits were strong armed into coming. But Johnson wouldn’t have blinked twice at killing him—that, Peter was sure of. And many others, though pushed into the matches, seemed to both enjoy and profit off of them. Who's to say one of those people wouldn’t stab Peter in the back the second he revealed his true colors?

Peter could just not trust anyone, but that stance wouldn’t help anyone. Let people like Wade or the Punisher constantly question the motives of individuals. Peter preferred to think people were generally good and wanted peace over chaos. But Peter still had to tread carefully. It wouldn’t be right to jeopardize the freedom and safety of everyone by turning his back to the wrong person.

But Peter was under no illusions. This was going to be hard to pull off. He hoped Matt was thinking of a plan, because Peter was all out of them. Saving one or two people would be easy. Saving several hundred of them was going to be a nightmare.

“Where the fuck are my extension cords?” one technician barked at another.

The other shrugged. “Brito, I think?”

“Where did he fuck off to?” She shook her head. “Never mind, anyone know what his transport looks like?” Peter stepped up. She dug through a mass collection of keyrings, then tossed a pair at him. The name BRITO was engraved on a thin metal plate hanging from the ring. “Get me my goddamn extensions cords, or I’ll kill Brito myself.”

Yeesh. It seemed like Brito wasn’t as universally liked as Peter thought.

Peter hunted down Brito’s purple monstrosity. It was parked far away from everyone else and close to an exit. Peter’s eyes moved up the tempting ramp, but someone had already hauled concrete walls and metal containers in the way of all exits. No one was leaving that way without the manpower of twenty people to haul it away. Or a battering ram. Or a concentrated dose of Captain America.

Or maybe Spider-Man? Peter looked around, almost immediately dismissing it. He could hardly do it now. Although he was out of sight and hearing range of most of Fisk’s hired people, there was no way to discreetly move a concrete divider without it echoing all throughout the garage.

He had to be patient, he reminded himself.

Shaking his head, Peter opened the back of Brito’s van. He sidestepped a bunch of falling industrial lights. It looked like Brito hadn’t been interested in transporting people this time. Or with helping. If Brito had even a whiff of a hint of where they were going, then grabbing the lights would have been a very strategic way of avoiding physical labor.

Peter sighed and pulled out the rest of the lights. Even without the lights, the back was hardly empty. Extension cords were stacked at one end in a messy pile. Parallel to it was Brito’s duffle bag and a box with a canvas tarp secured on it. A full box of smokes was spilled over the floor and a white ice chest took up most of the space behind the two front seats.

Peter stepped up and into the van, holding on to the ceiling lightly. His only focus was on the cords. But as he got in, bending over, he was hit with a familiar shiver from his spidey senses. He froze. It was like what he was used to feeling from his fellow spiders. But it felt wrong, like bad notes on a piano.

His eyes dropped to the box. Slowly, he tugged on the tarp until it slid off of the top of what was now unmistakably a cage.

The cage was big. It could have held a Great Dane or Saint Bernard in a pinch with plenty of room for them to both stand and circle around. But it was not meant for a human, and it was not meant for Cindy Moon.

Peter’s hand shot out, gripping the bars. They failed to bend, likely vibranium-enforced. Silk—for she was Silk at this very moment—stayed still. She was curled up in a ball on her side, her back to him. Her suit was shredded in places, replaced by gauze and other bandaging. She smelled heavily of antiseptic.

And she wasn’t awake. She was breathing shallowly out of her mouth. Only a jacket—Brito’s jacket—kept her from lying on the bottom grate of the cage. In the corner of the cage, there was a small collection of water bottles and three bags of the same granola bullshit Brito had been feeding him for the last few days.

“Petrelli.” This came softly from Peter’s left. He turned his head, eyes falling on a frowning Brito standing just outside of the van.

Peter stayed still for a moment. Then he sprang, launching himself from the van and at Brito.

Brito dodged, barely avoiding getting knocked on his ass to ground, but he wasn’t quite fast enough to keep Peter from pivoting and shoving him up against the back of the van. He gripped Peter’s arm and pushed back with considerable strength, but he was nowhere near the ability to fend off an angry Peter Parker.

“You fucking asshole,” Peter spat in his face. “Why her? Why _here_?”

Brito grinned crookedly for a moment. Peter expected a sleezy sales pitch. But then Brito grabbed Peter’s pinky and bent it in a way that Peter felt pain race up his arm like a hot iron brand. Peter released him, then Brito spun him and slammed him facedown in the bed of his open van. He twisted one of Peter’s arms behind his back.

“Hey, tough guy. Want answers? I’ll give you some answers.” Brito grabbed his hair through his mask and yanked his face up so he was looking at Silk. “See her? She got caught. She fought the Ox. She lost. And she’s damn lucky that idiot thought she was dead.” He let go of Peter’s head. “I confirmed her so-called death. I offered to toss her. I kept her here, and I kept her safe, and I kept her _alive_. If any of the others knew she was still kicking, she’d be in a deathmatch in a heartbeat. There’s sick fucks out there who would pay top dollar to watch a lady superhero die horribly.”

Peter stilled, staring at Silk. There were a hundred and one reasons why Cindy opted not to follow in Peter’s footsteps. She didn’t want to be targeted, she didn’t want to be known, and she didn’t want it to take over her life like Spider-Man had taken over Peter’s. She wore her suit so rarely—and even rarer still, these days. And it seemed like those outings coincided with only one thing: an effort to keep Peter Parker out of trouble.

If that was true, there was only one reason she was wearing the suit now. Peter’s letter clearly never made it back to his aunt and uncle. He’d asked them to contact Miles and Cindy, to warn them to cool their heels and keep their heads down. Cindy loved his aunt and uncle. She would have listened. So what the hell happened to Yuri?

Brito leaned into him. “You’ve seen my mercy before, Petrelli,” he said. “Don’t assume the worst of me.”

Peter’s attention snapped to Brito. For a second, he could almost hear another voice—a higher voice. And Brito heard it too, it seemed. He backed up, a hand over his throat. Peter pushed himself away from the van, watching Brito intently. He rarely looked so hard at Brito, mostly because Brito would call him out on it. He looked now. He didn’t see any wires. But his eyes were starting to hurt.

Peter blinked several times, then looked away. “The Benefactor has keys to your car.”

“A miscalculation on my part.” Brito reached out a hand, palm up. Peter handed over the key. Digging through his van, he retried a small tool and started damaging the key so it couldn’t be used again. Then he tossed the key back at Peter. “I trust you won’t let this young lady die because of it.”

Peter made a face at him. Then he remembered his mask. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. But only if you get me the extension cords.” When Brito squinted at him, confused, Peter pointed to the back corner of the van where the cords were still piled up.

After a beat, Brito said, “You’re free to-”

“No,” Peter said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I want _you_ to get them.”

Brito stared at him for a long moment, then huffed out a laugh. “You’re a brat,” he said, half-admiring. But he climbed into the van, pausing only to tug the tarp back over Silk. He started loading up his arms with the cords as Peter watched and Peter thought and Peter theorized.

There were so many things that didn’t make sense about Daniel Brito. The voice. Johnson’s discreet drop off. The many times he’d intervened and protected Peter from outing himself. That one-time Brito called him _Peter_ , not Petrelli.

Maybe Peter had more of an ally in Brito than he thought.


	13. Chapter 13

Roy almost got stabbed by a sword while walking to breakfast. Peter knew this only because he was walking, dead tired, behind the massive guy, struggling to deal with too little sleep on too hard of a surface.

The Benefactor’s operation had shut down for the night without a solid plan to restarting the matches. The most open space to work with was the lobby, but, given how close that was to the street level, that was an immediate no go. The last thing they needed was being reported by some pedestrian.

As an alternative, Montana was suggesting a communal kitchen area on the third floor. Its fire code allowance was 70 people. It would be a tight squeeze, and Montana couldn’t suggest a way to bring in their usual audience. Brito’s counter proposal was an open floor plan on the fourth floor. With a little light demolition of cubicles, they could have a wide-open space. Despite the bigger area, Brito suggested that they skip having a live audience all together and focus on their streaming revenue. His point was he didn’t trust their usual audience. Having any operation higher than the second floor was going to put them at risk, and if one of their guests ratted them out, they were going to be sitting ducks.

That reasonable assertion underlined and highlighted everyone’s current anxiety. They weren’t on the first, second, third, or even fourth floor at the moment. They were ordered to populate the eighth and ninth floors instead. For an operation that prioritized mobility, this was a striking deviation from the norm.

For Peter, he was just happy to see the New York skyline again. The windows weren’t boarded. He could tell they were in Manhattan. He could almost see the old Avengers tower in the distance.

A barebones force stayed on the eighth and ninth floors with them while the rest went up to the twelfth—and highest—floor. They were mostly there as a show of force and a reminder that they were not free.

A demi was beaten before Matt could get between him and the armed guard. He’d been trying to make a sign and put it in the window for someone to see. The guard attacked him out of what Peter thought was an overabundance of caution. Street level cars and pedestrians as well as their neighboring buildings were simply too far away to see such a small thing. If they were going to call out for help, it had to be in a way that was big and immediately obvious.

Fisk’s men talked in a circle about boarding the windows, but it was more for show than anything else. It became very clear very fast that they were just out of the loop as everyone else.

Fisk’s force with them did expand as the night went on. Ashen faced technicians and guards joined them periodically. They didn’t say a word. Other members of Fisk’s group came down as demis, spitting mad and upset. Those demis eventually had to be locked in their own separate room, and no one felt sorry for them. No one but maybe Peter.

“He’s streamlining his operation. Cutting off the fat. Excising the excess from his budget. How many more euphemisms do I need to say before you get the picture, Petrelli?” Brito snapped, exasperated.

For his part, Brito seemed to dodge most of the reassignments. He was constantly on the elevators, going back and forth all the time. He was running all over the place, working to make himself useful.

Peter worried about him. Shouldn’t he? He was supposed to be Brito’s bodyguard, after all, but when he tried to follow Brito the first time, he’d been told firmly to get back on his floor—or be shot. Brito tried to make up for it by giving him brief snippets of updates.

“What about…” Peter trailed off, looking around for eavesdroppers. Then he looked down pointedly, then back up at Brito.

“She’s awake and angry.” Brito’s mouth pulled into a smile. “I think she doesn’t like me.”

“Well, you know what they say. If you love someone, _let her go_.”

“All in good time, Petrelli.” Brito patted Peter’s arm. He leaned in and tucked a small manila envelope in Peter’s vest. “Please pass this on the lawyer as a token of my affection. But only as soon as things get dicey, okay?”

“Dicey?” Peter questioned, hand fluttering over the package. And why to Matt?

“You bet,” Brito said cheerfully. Then, quieter, he said, “Chin up. Eyes open. Keep tabs on your friends. Things are changing quickly.” He was leaning in so close, Peter could hear that second voice again. It almost echoed his own words, but before Peter could place the second voice, Brito pulled away and walked off.

Beyond that and the periodic opening and closing of the elevator doors, nothing else of importance happened that night. Nothing “dicey”. Peter slept with the package on him, waiting to pass it on in a moment’s notice.

So when nothing happened, Peter woke up in a bad mood. Not really hungry, he got up with everyone and shuffled to the room that they were distributing rations from. While Ralph had made sure that Peter knew his spot to sleep was by them, he was hardly warm and friendly in the morning. He was still ticked off that Peter was so cozy with Brito and seeing them chat the night before hadn’t improved his opinion about that.

It was clear what Ralph wanted to hear, and that was that Peter was getting out of the Benefactor’s crosshairs. Mind consumed with how to get _everyone_ out of there, Peter wasn’t exactly appreciative of Ralph’s single-minded focus. He’d snapped back more than once.

As for his role in this, Roy was trying hard to bridge the gap between Ralph and Peter, especially that morning. Ralph was giving Peter hardcore silent treatment, and, with all of his adult wisdom, Peter had determined to be just as childish back.

“Could you tell Ralph to keep his socks on while sleeping? It’s hard enough to be here without his feet waging biological warfare.”

“Could you tell Petrelli to knock it off with his stupid mask? A skull isn’t remotely intimidating. Besides, it doesn’t pair well with his squeaky, high pitched voice-”

“ _Fuck you!_ ”

Poor Roy barely had the space to talk, let alone pass along messages.

But he tried anyways. Unfortunately, his method of rebuilding the bond between the three of them was to reminisce about the good old days under Brito, which, unfortunately, was too close to Ralph and Peter’s feud to be a genuine distraction. In fact, Roy was recounting a time when Ralph launched a jumpy, fifteen-year-old Peter into a trashcan when the attack that morning suddenly happened.

One second, Peter was yawning. The next, he was elbowing Roy out of the way, holding off a sword with two knives.

The rest of the fighters around them scattered, including Roy and Ralph. Breakfast was forgotten in lieu of the sudden show. Even the guards were just watching. And, inches away, Wade’s expressive mask was practically gleaming with interest.

Peter swallowed. He wished his first response to almost getting stabbed wasn’t one of the first genuinely joyful emotion he’d felt in hours. Wade was here! Wade was alive. Wade was walking.

And, unfortunately, Wade was talking.

“Oh?” Wade said lightly, voice rumbling deep in his throat. He put more of his weight on his sword—not one of his katanas, Peter instantly noticed. Wade’s body was bare of his usual stash of weapons. Even his utility belt was gone. “Who is this getting in my way with his itty-bitty toothpicks?”

“Nobody in particular,” Peter huffed with half of a laugh. He tried to pitch his voice a little lower to avoid recognition.

Wade, for once, was oblivious. “Why don’t you sheath your claws and wait your turn? Big Boy over there and Daddy need to have a heart to sword conversation.”

Despite those words, Wade yanked his stolen sword back, then swung it at Peter’s head. Peter blocked it again, feeling the power of the strike vibrate up and down his arms. All power, zero finesse, Peter realized. Very unlike Wade.

“What did he do to deserve you?”

“ _What didn’t he do?_ ” Wade snarled, slamming his sword back down towards Peter. When they hit Peter’s knives again, Wade paused. Then he squinted at Roy again. “…Isn’t that the Ox?”

“That’s Roy Simmons,” Peter said impatiently. “He’s on YouTube.”

Obligingly, Roy waved. “G-good morning!”

“Fuck. Off,” Wade snapped at him. Then the eyeholes in his mask clenched shut. He muttered breathlessly to himself, saying, “Bugle, big guy. Big guy, Bugle. Bugle, big guy-”

Peter had no idea what he was talking about. He wanted to gently knock his head into Wade’s like he usually did when Wade got caught up in his own brain. But if he did that, he’d probably lose his skull. So, instead, he spoke. “You know, size isn’t everything.”

Wade’s eyes opened. He glared. “You’ll figure out why size does matter when I run you through with my sword like an _undead hors d'oeuvre_.” He paused. “Also, insert dick joke.”

Peter couldn’t help but grin at that. “Sounds like something my husband would say.”

Wade’s face went slack. His weight on the sword disappeared, and he stared at Peter like he was lost, like he didn’t know what to do. Peter realized, smile fading, that he should have said anything but that.

But before Wade could respond, he suddenly seized up, lightning arcing around his body. He dropped his sword first, then he hit the floor, revealing Brito behind him with a taser.

“Alright, show’s over. Get back to grabbing breakfast,” Brito ordered. Grumbling, everyone around him did just that. Only Peter, Roy, and Ralph lingered, though Ralph looked angry about it.

Sparing them only a second’s glance, Brito rolled over Wade, who was tense and cursing up a storm. He nudged Wade’s head with the side of his shoe. “Do you take constructive criticism?”

Wade muttered something that sounded like the combination of the phrases “fuck you”, “only when I’m screwing your mother”, and “I’ll see you in hell.” Weirdly, though Brito was the one talking to him, he kept craning his neck, glaring up at Peter with confused suspicion. Peter rubbed the back of his neck, not sure where to go from here.

“Certain people wandering around like a maniac should know that the real way to hit the Benefactor is in his wallet,” Brito said. Despite the continued seizing, Wade actually looked thoughtful, like this was good advice. Brito stood and pulled the prongs out of Wade’s suit. He put away his taser. “Simmons! Thanks for volunteering. There’s a special place for guys like him to cool their heels, and I’m so glad civic minded people like you are willing to carry him there.”

Visibly dreading where this was going, Roy nevertheless shuffled forward, reaching out to Wade. He froze when Wade tangled a hand at his collar.

“Hey,” Wade croaked. “Princess carry. or you’ll be refinancing new kneecaps instead of your house.”

Peter put his hands on his hips, scowling. Well, that was uncalled for.

“Y-yes sir!” Roy yelped, shifting his grip. He’d been about to throw Wade over his shoulder too.

Roy walked off with Wade. Wade kept looking around Roy with a glare, eyes pinned on Peter accusingly. Brito followed them at half a pace behind, idly swinging Wade’s stolen sword at side.

Wondering how he’d managed to screw that up, Peter watched them go. Then he flinched when Ralph suddenly thumped his arm. “ _Husband?_ ” Ralph demanded shortly.

Well, shit. Did he overhear that? There were many things Peter didn’t want to explain, but his relationship with Wade was right up there.

Ralph breathed out a low, shallow breath, looking pained. “Look, kid, I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter said. He didn’t want to hear it.

“-there are red flags in _any_ relationship, and, it might be me set in my old ways, but jokes about _stabbing_ your significant other? That’s not a red flag. It’s a goddamn SOS. A klaxon warning. Red spinny lights as far as the eye can see. A forecast of the storm to come—you _feeling_ me, Petrelli?

What? Peter wasn’t sure where this conversation went so off the rails, especially since his comment at Wade was more of an elbow jab at Wade’s massive appreciation for all things related to dick jokes.

Then, stupidly, Peter said, “He’s only stabbed me once…”

“Once?!” Ralph bellowed, purpling.

Uh oh. “Look, if you understood the context-” Ralph was making a noise that would have sounded at home from an ignored tea kettle. Peter rapidly backed off. “Look, I actually have to be somewhere. I’ll explain later. Have a good breakfast!”

Peter had run from very few things in his life. He was embarrassed to have to add “Ralph Santos” to that list.

-

The cage Wade was put in was fit for a moderately sized dog. It wasn’t not the iron coffin Fisk has promised him, nor the chains he’d filed out of just an hour before. It wasn’t well reinforced either. Wade would probably finagle a way out in about another hour.

Then he’d go after either that dapper motherfucker or his skull faced minion. Wade could generally tell who the most interesting people in a place were after a few minutes in their presence. Interesting people didn’t run from him. Interesting people made eye contact and muttered sly comments about their bosses and ways Wade could fuck up their day.

And interesting people traded blows with him, both physical and verbal. Though that last blow was doozy, leaving Wade both angry and a little scared. Him and that hopped up Halloween costume were gonna have some _words_ before the night was over. Wade swore to it.

Besides, who the fuck brought a knife to a sword fight? Seriously?

But, first things first—Wade’s timeout corner was literally shaking, and not with a plot convenient earthquake neither. No, the shaking was man-made. Specifically, made by a man almost ten feet tall with a face only a mother could love. Those massive feet on that massive man stopped by Wade’s cage. Wade tried very hard to be a dog and thus not of any interest to certain oversized mutants. Woof.

Weirdly? It didn’t work.

The Juggernaut crouched down next to Wade’s cage. “Heard you were looking for a big man, Wade,” Cain Marko said mockingly.

Already wincing, Wade pretended like he just noticed the guy. “Jugs! Long time no see.” He got off of all fours, resting his weight on his hip instead. “Sorry, conjugal visits aren’t until _next_ Sunday.”

“Still a mouthy fuck, eh?” Cain patted the cage once, and lightly enough. Despite this care, the cage crumpled down a foot, giving Wade much less room. “Thought I should visit, given our shared history. How are you, Wade?”

There wasn’t anything that the Juggernaut could do to him that he wouldn’t eventually heal from. That said, Wade didn’t want to get ripped in half again. It was a personal preference—you understand, right? So he humored the guy. “Peachy,” Wade said flatly.

Cain didn’t seem to care. “Me, I’m doing great. Out of the slammer and into my next job—hey! Funny little thing about my job. They sent me after a spider?” Wade froze, and Cain Marko grinned. “Now I know you, Wade, and I know you had a favorite little spider. Could it possibly be the same one, I wondered?”

The only thing Wade had managed to get out of the Bugle staff before bolting was that a very large man had been standing on the steps just minutes before the dead body was found. Wade hadn’t read too much into it. There was no way such a man wouldn’t have been noticed dropping the body, he’d theorized, and no way such a man could have made his way through a crowd without a thousand phones recording his entire escape.

Unless that man was the Juggernaut.

“After I warmed up with a couple of cops, I went after your guy. They told me to take my time with him—and I sure did, numbnuts. He was begging for mercy at the end of it—ya hate to see it happen. Big old superhero like that going down so poorly.” Cain turned his left hand into a fist. “So I took his little skull in my left hand, right?” He slammed his fist into his right palm, saying, “and I _smashed_ it. Boom. Like an overripe tomato. So quick, it was.”

An icy chill went through Wade. Cain wasn’t always the brightest bulb in the bunch, but he was a visual storyteller. Wade had no problem imagining what went down. The tiny ember of hope he had for Peter was dimming darker and darker. Soon, it would be completely snuffed out.

“Oh boy, Jugs,” Wade said slowly with a chuckle. His voice came out in a low rasp. “I used to like you. Now, after I kill Fisk? I’m mounting your head on my wall.”

Cain laughed at that, a full bodied and hearty laugh. Wade despised him. Cain patted the cage twice more, metal screeching under the abuse. “Looking forward to it, little man.” He leaned forward, shaking a finger at Wade. “You know what, you keep sitting here, thinking you’ve got one over the boss. I don’t like him much, but I’ve learned something important about Kingpin.” The Juggernaut stood to his full height, tapping the side of his helmet. “He is always, always ten steps ahead of you.” With that dire warning, he ambled off. “See ya, Wade.”

“Yeah, at your funeral,” Wade hissed out, voice hoarse. He punched down at the ground once, eyes water. “ _Fuck_.”

He rubbed at his face briskly, taking in a shaky breath. He needed to focus.

That skull faced brat said the thing that Peter tended to slip up and say. Was it just a coincidence? Did he know that because he’d talked to Peter? Was everything just in Wade’s head? He had to know. He had to know he had to know _hehadtoknow_ -

With a pent-up scream, Wade kicked out, finishing the damage that Cain had started. The warped pet door buckled under the abuse. He’d managed to squeeze halfway out of the cage by the time the one they called Daniel Brito came in, hot stepping like a mom trying to show off to the rest of her yoga friends.

Brito paused, looking down at the mess. Wade’d had enough of his bullshit. “Don’t blame me for this. I just had a run-in with the Juggernaut,” Wade spat, wiggling the rest of his legs free. Despite being the person who put him in the cage, Brito didn’t seem at all alarmed at his premature escape.

“Yeah, I heard,” Brito said quietly. Then, business-like, he said, “Deal with your trauma later. I need you to ruin the Benefactor’s day first.”

“Yeah?” Vengefully, Wade kicked out of his cage. “And what do I get out of it?”

Brito pulled two sets of tools from behind his back. “A set of lockpicks and a bolt cutter to break into and out of any place you want in this outdated building. What do you say?”

-

If Peter ever wrote a memoir, he’d dedicate at least a chapter praising the good inventors and architects that made elevator shafts a thing. To many, an elevator shaft was a thing of doom, the kind of void you never wanted to see yourself step over. But for Peter and his web shooters, the presence of an elevator meant hope. Hope he could reach the ground floor, hope that he could ascend a tall building from within. Hope that he could do either thing in a timely enough manner.

Time was also important when you were trying to duck out of a semi-secure criminal facility.

While everyone was getting their breakfast ration, Peter was dropping down and back into the garage. He went to the closest exit and squeezed through the physical barriers. He almost didn’t make the last foot, earning himself a long scrape down his back where he had to squeeze between a metal container and a concrete wall.

But at last, he sprung free. Tossing his vest and his mask under a rundown car, Peter mingled in with the crowd of pedestrians. Even so, he was painfully aware of how much he stood out. Most New Yorkers were dressed for the weather, and Peter was missing layers to his clothes that a normal person might expect. Keeping his head down and avoiding all eye contact, Peter hurried around the block and dropped into a bodega he recognized. He asked for use of their phone and, unlike the last shop, the cashier didn’t give him any attitude.

Even as Peter punched in Yuri’s numbers, Peter wondered if he was still doing the right thing. If Silk didn’t get the memo to keep her head down, then Peter thought it was pretty obvious that his letters didn’t get delivered. Worst case scenario, Yuri got swiped or picked up before she could do anything about his request. He had a very real concern that his calls were essentially going nowhere.

Adopting the accent again, Peter tried the same angle as before. This time, he spoke less about Fisk. Instead, he talked about the landmarks he was “lost” by, and how much he hoped she would come pick him up soon. After he ran out of things to say, he hung up. Then he just stood there, staring at the sight of his own hand on the phone.

He kind of wanted to call Tony now, but he wasn’t sure he could handle things being escalated to an Avenger level. Besides, the NYPD themselves made it very clear that most—if not all—of their matters did not need the interference of a well-meaning vigilante, let alone Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. What if Peter ended up ruining their entire case against Kingpin because he couldn’t stick with it for more than 48 hours? What if the Avengers showed up in force, and Wendy killed all of the demis with a single push of a button?

“Dude,” the cashier said, watching him, “I think you got ghosted by your girlfriend.”

“You think?” Peter backed away from the phone, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.”

Peter made his way back to the building. He paused at the foot of it and looked up. Even with his vision, the windows were dim and hazy. No one would know what was happening there unless they were specifically looking for him. Frowning, Peter retrieved his gear and made his way back inside the parking garage.

Briefly, he stopped by Brito’s van, unable to help himself. Cindy was awake, but she held her breath, hearing him too. Peter considered whispering something, even some kind words, but ultimately said nothing, not wanting to complicate matters. Suddenly angry at himself, he thwipped up the shaft with less care than he normally took. He slid into the ninth floor with no one the wiser.

He noticed instantly that it was quieter. An entire unit was missing—his unit, specifically. Asking around about it got him nowhere. The other fighters, catching up on sleep or wiling away the time with card games, were either hostile to his questions or indifferent. The demis weren’t much different in that regard. In fact, the only difference was how much more fear they displayed to him. Apparently, he’d been seen by more than one demi carrying a dead Deadpool.

Finally, Peter got somewhere when he almost tripped over Matt.

“I don’t know what’s going on either,” Matt said plainly. “Only that most of Fisk’s guys are leaving us alone.” Johnny, who’d stepped up quickly to become Matt’s second, was squinting suspiciously at Peter from across the room. “Also, I overheard that Brito was looking for you.”

“When?”

Apparently, about ten minutes ago. With the help of some demis along the way, Peter found where Brito had holed himself up.

Once upon a time, the space would have been a windowless conference room. A generic set of tables and chairs filled the room. Old posters, while still hanging, were nevertheless peeling off the wall, weighed down by the passage of time. A light layer of dust coated the surfaces, much like it coated everything else in this office building.

And Brito was sitting there at one end of the table. He sat in darkness, lit up only by the flickering lights of a camera feed coming from his laptop.

“Montana got his wish,” Brito said without preamble. He was eating ramen from a styrofoam cup, and his feet were up on the table. “He got his battleground, alright. Poor production quality, though. That’s what you get when all of the good technicians have been collared or turned into gun-toting mercenaries. Waste of skill, you ask me.”

“The matches have resumed?” Peter asked, creeping further into the room. He closed the door behind him.

Brito paused mid-chew. Then, with a lazy hand, he batted the laptop in Peter’s direction, reaching around to switch the feed off of mute.

Almost immediately, heavy throbbing music and that horrible announcer’s voice broke the silence of the room.

It wasn’t another match. It was another deathmatch.

“Why?” Peter demanded, crashing into the chair. He watched the feed helplessly, mind racing. Where did Montana want his matches, again? Was it the third floor or the fourth? And why now? He was under the impression that there weren’t going to be any matches, let alone deathmatches.

“The first one was a bust,” Brito said thickly, digging deeper into the cup. “Fisk wants to recoup his losses. He suggested you, actually. You were gone, so I went to the next best thing-”

Blaring over Brito’s bland explanation, the announcer enthusiastically introduced the first contenders, shining a light on the miserable and worried unit 62. In the middle of them stood both Roy and Ralph. Ralph was handling a hockey stick, and he looked very green. Peter needed to get down there. He stood.

Brito sharply kicked his knee and, reflexively, Peter sat down. “It’s handled. Relax. I’m taking a calculated risk, here.”

It occurred to Peter that Brito must have successfully argued to take control of the fighter inventory—or the so-called “talent”. Brito was the one calling the shots now. “Send me in there.”

“That’s not an option,” Brito said. “Stay seated. Like I’ve said before, I like to bet on sure things. You’re a sure thing, but you weren’t here. I went with the next best option, so deal with the consequences.” He nudged the laptop closer to Peter.

Upset, Peter took it, frowning down at it in time to see unit 62’s anticipated opponent waltz into the limelight. 

Peter didn’t really expect to see Wade all of a sudden, let alone a Wade wearing a pair of Socker Boppers and an inflatable unicorn pool ring. His jaw dropped. He wasn’t the only one struggling to cope. The announcer was downright stuttering and whoever was controlling the movements of the lights stopped completely to stare.

“Uh… fight?” the announcer suggested, sounding uncertain.

Unfortunately for Wade, Peter’s unit saw his new accessories as a vile insult and charged him as a mass, wielding the myriad of weapons that someone had put in their hands. But Wade didn’t exactly need hands or a full range of motion to handle people without formal training.

The fight was incredibly one-sided, and no less brutal for being facilitated by a man wearing a unicorn.

Ironically, Roy and Ralph of all people had the most training and background to bring to the table to challenge Wade. But after getting hit once by a Socker Bopper, they got the hint, hit the ground, and stopped moving.

It took only five minutes for all of unit 62 to be laid out on the floor either by choice or by force, but not a single one of them was killed. In the middle of it all, Wade danced in time to the music. At the chorus of boos at this action behind the cameras, Wade bellowed, “ _Are you not entertained_?” Then, seeing a ground level camera, he ran over to it, sliding on his knees. Then he started enthusiastically twerking for the camera.

Peter’s fist was shoved so hard against his mouth, his teeth were starting to ache. Peter had ruined the first deathmatch he saw through the power of the sprinkler system. Wade had ruined his through the power of his whimsy.

There was no way in hell anyone was putting this on the web for gambling purposes. It was too embarrassing. 

Peter pressed harder against the grin he felt forming. Only when he thought he could control himself did he say, “He won and no one’s dead. What’s the benefit for you?” A guy like Brito had to know Wade’s personality. On top of being a notorious troll, Deadpool wasn’t the type of person who allowed anyone else to cash in on his work without his express say-so. 

“It no longer looks like I’m playing favorites.” Brito tossed his empty cup aside. “Fortunately for us both, Deadpool takes constructive criticism.”

Peter wasn’t sure where he was going with that. “Deadpool doesn’t kill indiscriminately,” he said protectively.

“Not anymore,” Brito agreed. And, for the first time since Peter entered the room, he finally looked at him. His direct gaze was like being pinned into a wall. Peter’s hair stood on end.

“Hell of a thing to have a bodyguard more concerned about phone calls than his job,” Brito said softly. Peter said nothing, tense from head to toe. Brito just nodded to himself, standing. “You don’t leave. Not again. There’s too much going down here and now that needs your attention. Whoever you think is out there for you? They don’t matter. Get used to it, Petrelli. You and I? We’re all we have.”

-

“Another dead end, huh?” Tony muttered, looking down at the apartment building.

Spitting hair out of her mouth, Jessica turned to him. “What?” she shouted, an inch away from his mask. He leaned away from her. The motion was enough to rock them in mid-air which, in turn, provoked her to squeeze his armor even harder.

Yes, Tony supposed it was rather windy and loud up here. He’d designed and installed very effective noise cancelers in his mask for that very reason. Graciously, he took them to the roof of the place where the short-range RFID signal was originating from. If only to save his suit. It was going to take quite some time to buffer out the indents of her fingers. 

“It’s fucking cold,” Jessica said, hopping off his foot.

FRIDAY helped, throwing up a metric gauging the ambient temperature. “It’s winter,” he said. “Maybe if a certain someone dressed less to look cool and more to stay warm, she wouldn’t be having this issue. Lovely leather coat, by the way.”

Jessica glowered at him. “I don’t want to hear that from a guy who literally painted his suit of armor both red _and_ gold before he ever field tested it.” Uh, rude? Technically, he field tested it in Afghanistan.

Tony opened his mouth, about to expand on this. But someone else butted in.

“Sounds like something Howard would do.” Bucky Barnes came out of the roof access door. “Was wondering what all the commotion was about.”

“Thought you were supposed to be on Deadpool’s trail,” Tony said quickly. Barnes always made him feel complicated things, a mixture of weird guilt, shallow anger, and squirming discomfort. For his part, Barnes seemed even less ready than him to deal with the baggage between them.

“It got cold. So Steve and I split, and I started backtracking,” Barnes explained politely enough. His eyes moved between Tony and Jessica. “Mind explaining what you two are doing on Wade’s roof?”

Tony crossed his arms over his chest, not answering. It was a dead end. Of course they were going to find one of Peter’s suits here. Peter practically lived here. And that was entirely Wade’s intention. When Deadpool came to Tony, on his knees and begging, he specifically asked for help finding a place that Peter would be comfortable calling home. He promptly ignored half of Tony’s suggestions, but his final choice of this place? Not bad. It was probably a little too rich for Peter’s taste, knowing him, but Tony wasn’t the only one in New York who thought Peter could stand a bit of pampering.

“RFID tag,” Jessica said simply.

Understanding flooded Barnes’ face. “Ah. Sorry.”

The roof access door opened again. Jessica immediately called out to their new guest. “Hey, you’re supposed to be holding down the fort at the office.”

Wanda walked around Barnes, pulling her coat tighter around her. “I pulled a page out of your book and didn’t sleep,” she said dryly. She pulled out her phone, swiped a few things, then handed it over to Jessica. “All of your cases are both solved and closed. I’ve updated your website and email to tell others that you are not accepting cases for the time being.”

“I didn’t okay this,” Jessica said immediately. Then, a moment later, her shoulders sagged. “…Thank you.”

“If I opened up my own agency, you would be bankrupt in under a year,” Wanda said mercilessly.

“Pretty sure there’s a non-compete clause in your employment contract.”

“Ha! Try defending that in court. I know a lawyer.”

“Yeah, _my_ lawyer,” Jessica quipped.

This exchange made Tony feel a little bad for dragging Jessica around with him on this new lead. It wasn’t like he’d twisted her arm (she’d dropped everything once Tony filled her in), but dealing with Tony seemed to make the notch between her eyebrows permanent. The stress of the situation was one thing. Dealing with Tony was an entirely different stressor. Tony knew he was an acquired taste.

But better Jessica than Spider-Kid. He’d barely convinced the kid to take a back seat on this, mostly by promising to give him frequent updates, a task he’d promptly delegated to Happy. The kid had called Happy ten times already. More distressing to Happy, though, was the fact that Spider-Kid had promptly introduced himself. Miles was a fine name, Tony thought, but Happy, as was his nature, was already tripping towards the worst-case scenario. Last time Tony talked to him, Happy was looking up both the Witness Protection Program and charmingly basic ways to hide the information of minors from the prying eyes of internet denizens.

“There’s got to be a better way of doing this,” Jessica said, smoothing her hair back down. “Better than flying around at random.”

“It’s not… random,” Tony said weakly. They’d been strategic about it. While Scott stayed with the Parkers and Steve continued to pursue Wade, Rhodey, Sue, and Hope were leading teams around New York City with RFID detectors. Even the X-Men were offering some assistance in the form of Piotr Rasputin and two of his former students. Vision was a flying RFID detector himself, so Tony sent him off on his lonesome. It was too bad Thor and Carol were in space right now. The two of them could have covered a lot more ground.

“Steve said that Peter gets all of his suits from Reed Richards,” Barnes said. “Ask Richards how many suits he thinks Peter still has in circulation.”

“What good would that do?” Wanda asked.

Barnes shrugged. “At least you’ll know how many more to look for.”

And they would know when this lead became yet another dead end, Tony thought.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Jessica said. We found one here, and Clint and Hope already found one in that random apartment complex-”

“Pieces of one,” Tony corrected tightly. He hadn’t liked the implications behind finding only Peter’s mask in the apartment of random civilians. Itching to move, he turned towards the edge of the roof. “We’re close to the Baxter Building. Reed is home, keeping an eye on Franklin. We might as well barge in.”

Barnes turned suddenly, a hand over his ear. He listened for a moment, then turned back to them. “Steve just called. Vision found another RFID tag in the 616 MHz range,” he reported.

Vision. Yet another person Tony had a weird relationship with. “Where?” Tony asked.

“An apartment complex near Inwood Hill Park,” Barnes said.

FRIDAY helpfully threw up some pictures and calculations in Tony’s heads up display. “It’s on the other side of Manhattan. Reed first, then we’ll see about Inwood Hill.” With that decided, Tony reached out a hand to Jessica.

Jessica immediately backed off, waving her hands defensively. “No way, I’m not flying with you again.” After a beat, she sent her employee a sly look. “Bet you could beat Tony.”

Wanda scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “It’s not a matter of if I can beat Iron Man.” She looked at him and shot him a fiery eyed glare, her strange powers already looping lazily around both herself and Jessica. “It’s only a matter of _by_ _how much_.”

“Big words for someone who missed the last fourteen training sessions with the team,” Tony taunted, his boots already firing up.

“I’ll just-” Wanda, Jessica, and Tony shot off of the roof. “-walk, then,” Barnes finished.


	14. Chapter 14

Surviving a deathmatch gained Unit 62 instant celebrity status amongst their fellow fighters. Kept from the noise and bustle, everyone wanted to know what happened. Pleased to be alive—and to have the temporary favor of their peers—Peter’s unit soon found themselves uneasily deflecting questions about the match. There was no easy way to admit you’d been beaten up by a guy wearing a unicorn—even if that guy was as notorious as Wade.

Boredom fueled most of the questions, and the serendipitous launching of a few card games dried up most of them. Peter had even joined them for a bit. Those who didn’t play took naps, obsessed over their gear, or talked with one another. Without matches and between meals, there was little else to do. Even Fisk’s people seemed stymied by a lack of things to do. They clustered up in batches of concerned whispering amongst themselves. Apparently, Fisk was isolating himself on the top floor, waiting for… something. Only Brito was able to bridge the gap between Fisk and the rest of his operation.

And speaking of gaps, there was a huge one between the “talent” and the demis. There was a mutual distrust there that seemed to be assuaged only by maintaining their own areas.

This, Peter learned when he’d tried to find Matt.

“It’s the bombs, mostly,” Matt theorized when Peter finally caught up to him. He was leaning against a doorway that lead into what could have once been a waiting room. Behind him, demis were whiling away the time in similar ways to the fighters. “The existential threat of them, anyhow. The physical threat has been overhyped. The explosive force is very localized. Unless a bunch of them are stacked up on top of each other, they’re not going to do damage to anyone or anything around them.” He tugged on his own collar grimly. “Just to their owners.”

“Can’t discount rogue bits of shrapnel,” Peter said from experience.

Matt paused. “That’s true,” he admitted, “but there are other things I’m more worried about.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Fisk has been hands off nearly this entire time. He let everyone else decide how to set the tone and pace of this operation. The only things he specifically asked for was a positive revenue steam-”

“Obviously.” This was Kingpin they were talking about.

“-and a source of C4,” Matt continued. “The problem with securing C4 is that both the state and the local authorities have cracked down against the transportation of explosives in the city. Remember that drama with fertilizer three years back?”

“Of course,” Peter said, remembering that May had been spitting mad. She still couldn’t wrap her head around how her prized tomatoes had to do anything with explosives, and Peter was sure that explanation of the chemistry behind it wouldn’t land well.

“Well, a few weeks back, Fisk finally found a source through one of the jail birds he let free. But the guy ran into the cops and fled, leaving all of the C4 behind.” Matt rubbed the side of his neck where the bruising was more obvious. “Fisk was able to retrieve only a fraction of it, even with the help of an inside man-”

“Fisk has people in the NYPD?” Peter interrupted urgently.

Matt scoffed. “Of course he does.” Then, remembering who he was talking to, Matt sighed and shook his head. After a moment, he angled a rueful smile in Peter’s general direction. “Sorry. I forgot how new you were to all of this when we finally nailed Kingpin.” His expression turned grim. “Some people buy stock. Some people buy politicians. Fisk bought cops. When his empire was in full swing, a lot of lesser charges and damning evidence were lost. That’s why it took so long for him to get caught. Nothing stuck.” He pushed away from the frame of the door, facing Peter fully. “But timing was on our side when we caught up to Kingpin that last time. George Stacy, the current Chief of Police, was sworn into that position, and with him came a flurry of anti-corruption measures. The bad seeds were weeded out. The worst ones were imprisoned. Fisk no longer had roots in our criminal justice system.”

“Or so you thought.”

“Or so we thought,” Matt agreed. He looked away, scratching the back of his head. “A lot of things are bad about this situation. But I worry about the C4 the most. I don’t know how little—or how much—Fisk was able to get in the end. But placed in the wrong place and detonated at the wrong time? It could hurt a lot of people, and more than just the folks inside of this building.”

“Right,” Peter said slowly. He crossed his arms too, rubbing his chin with his palm. The possibility of someone using C4 hung on him like a weight. It was yet another thing he had to worry about when it came to getting everyone back home. The idea that he could somehow circumvent the collars, recruit the fighters to help him, and subdue Fisk’s loyalists, and yet _still_ be buried under concrete by a well placed C4 was…

Well. It was disheartening. Depressing. Demoralizing.

Matt suddenly thumped Peter’s chest with a closed fist, startling him out of his spiraling thoughts. Strangely, he was smiling. “Cheer up, pal. This might seem awful right now, but I have never been so hopeful.”

Peter stared at him in disbelief. “Why’s that?”

“It’s because of _you._ ” After a beat, Matt shrugged. “And, on a much lesser scale, Johnny and Wade.” Peter snorted. But Matt was right. Although Peter was never one for group projects, there was something viscerally relieving about knowing he wasn’t alone. Matt echoed his thoughts a second later, saying, “I thought I was going to have to deal with this by myself, and that thought was… crushing.”

Matt’s face froze. His smile fell. He shot a wary look Peter’s way. “Was that-” He stopped, biting back whatever he was about to say. Then, more carefully, he said, “Was that how you felt last year?”

Peter wasn’t sure how to answer that. Last year, everyone Peter called an ally—Matt included—treated him like he had the plague. A lot of it was Peter's fault, this was true. But was it crushing to know he didn’t have the room—or even the time—to explain what was really happening to Harry Osborn? Was it crushing to know his friends and allies thought so little of his trustworthiness? Was it crushing to face the Green Goblin alone, knowing his only backup was in the form of a particularly stubborn NYPD captain?

Trying to think of something helpful to say, Peter opened his mouth. But Matt lifted his hand before Peter could speak. “Don’t lie to me. You’re bad at it.” Matt was smiling a little again.

But behind him, Johnny was glaring suspiciously, and Johnny wasn’t the only demi watching. It wouldn’t do to get visibly chummy with Matt Murdock. Matt’s alter ego wasn’t exactly secret, but it wasn’t well documented like Tony or Steve’s. In any scenario, there was about a 50/50 shot of someone being aware that the mild-mannered blind lawyer was also a masked vigilante maniac. Even some who should have known better protested against it, sure that the alleged connection was a stunt.

So with an awkward apology, Peter reluctantly pulled away from his straight forward ally and began looking around for the less than straightforward one instead. If C4 was going to be yet another variable in this operation, Peter needed to understand exactly what Daniel Brito was after in all of this mess.

Brito didn’t seem to be on their level anymore, but that didn’t stop Peter from methodically checking every nook, every office, every bathroom, and every breakroom of the eighth floor. This task was made easier by the fact that, by this time, most of Fisk’s hired people were checked out and clustered together on the ninth floor instead.

But this task also made it easier for people to track down Peter. Seemingly unsatisfied with basking in their momentary relevance amongst their peers, Roy and Ralph interrupted his search ten minutes in. Well past giving him the silent treatment, Ralph wasn’t quite done ripping Peter a new one. Roy was just there for moral support—though whose morale he tried to boost changed every other second.

But there was a problem. Ralph wasn’t the only one with a bone to pick with Peter.

They were in the middle of arguing about Peter’s life choices when something sweet and choking curled in his mouth. Roy went down first under the influence of the sudden gas, then Ralph. Thanks to his metabolism and the physical (though not airtight) barrier of his mask, Peter took a little while longer to drop. Instead of running away, Peter stayed awake long enough to locate the source of the gas—a vent high in the ceiling. Holding his breath as best as he could, Peter tried to climb up and pry open the vent to get the canister he could see just inside.

He didn’t remember unsticking from the wall, and he sure as hell didn’t remember falling. But when he woke up, he was sore and he could taste blood in his mouth from where he had bit his cheek.

He was in a completely different room—a break room, it looked like. He was seated upright in an office chair and duct taped to it. Ralph was taped to a chair across from him, head drooping and breathing deep. He guessed he was out for only a few minutes because suddenly the door banged open, revealing Wade as he struggled to drag a snoring Roy into the room.

“Oof, he’s a big boy, isn’t he?” Wade muttered to himself.

“Roy’s not a guy who skimps on his proteins,” Peter agreed easily.

Wade let out a high-pitched scream and dropped Roy. Roy hit the ground hard, but didn’t wake up. He continued to snore like a bull. Peter pulled his head back slightly when Wade whipped out a makeshift sword and aimed it at his neck. He was glad the mask hid his smile. What a perfect example of Wade’s chaotic resourcefulness. He managed to rustle up and mix a proper batch of chemicals to knock out three grown men, but he couldn’t find any of his gear. He made do with a cardboard sword and a utility belt that was only rope and mismatched pouches made out of what suspiciously looked like people’s underwear.

“Wait your turn, Gregg,” Wade snapped. Deeming Peter properly menaced, he sheathed his “sword”.

What? Gregg? Peter looked up at the ceiling, trying to think. Then he remembered the mask and made a face.. “…You would like _Conker’s Bad Fur Day_ , wouldn’t you?” Peter started pulling his arms free from the chair.

Wade bent back over Roy, putting his back into it. “One, knock it off with the duct tape. You wouldn’t not _believe_ how hard it was to swipe that from Fisk’s people. Two, _Conker’s Bad Fur Day_ is a classic, a modern art piece way before its time. So get out of my head.” When Peter continued to unpeel himself, Wade freed a hand. Peter watched a throwing knife—a real one—embed itself on the floor between his feet. Teeth gritted, Wade said, “Be. Polite.”

Called out, Peter lowered his arm back to his armrest. Politely. He watched Wade heave and ho, dragging Roy to the third of the three chairs. With an exhausted sigh, Wade wrapped duct tape around the sleeping man. When Roy slivered down, weight limp and heavy enough to tear through his tape bonds, Wade dropped, crouching in front of the man. Peter could see Wade’s will to live rapidly declining.

“I guess this pretty light handed. For you.” Roy slipped down a little further, breaking around a round of tape.

“…Don’t pretend like you know me,” Wade said flatly. He pushed Roy’s head back against the chair and gave him a wide headband of that silver stuff. That was going to hurt to take off, Peter realized. Then Wade’s words caught up with him.

“What?” Was Wade serious? With Peter’s track record, he might as well be wearing a name tag.

Wade ignored him, his back to Peter. Wade wasn’t usually that cold—to anyone, let alone Peter. In fact, Peter tended to get the special treatment from Wade. The best seat in the house, the choicest pieces of food, 110% of Wade’s attention. Everyone always said Wade was a horrible person to know back in the day, but Peter never saw it. There was only one thing that was certain. If May and Ben Parker didn’t receive Peter’s letter through Yuri, _then Wade didn’t either_.

Wade probably thought he was really dead.

“Wade,” Peter said gently. “Wade, you _know_ who I am.” He was pleading at this point.

And Wade heard it. He stopped taping up Roy and looked over at Peter. He stood abruptly, chucking his tape roll over his shoulder. “Sure I do,” he said easily, walking up to Peter. “You are a Taskmaster wannabe. It’s sad. You’re sad.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Peter said, exasperated and already annoyed.

Wade wasn’t done. He crouched in front of Peter. “You look like you plucked your design ideas from a 2005 emo MySpace influencer. Or! Or like you robbed the clearance section at Hot Topic on your lunch break.” Wade lifted up a hand. “Wait, wait. I have another one. You look like a rejected character design from _Coco_.”

Peter had just about had it. “This suit doesn’t have a voice inducer, Wade!” he snapped.

Wade stilled. And so did Peter, but for different reasons.

Wade Wilson was usually a man of motion. He kicked out in his sleep. Skipped when he could walk. Flipped when he could run. He was the kind of person who turned dish plates into drums. Fidget spinners didn’t last long with him, often worn out in mere months instead of full years. Wade was always, always moving.

So when he stilled, Peter’s spidey sense never failed to perk up with wariness. Stillness meant an enemy was around the corner. Stillness meant he was looking down the scope of a sniper rifle. Stillness meant that, in a moment, Wade was going to _move_ , and he was going to be completely unpredictable.

Peter flinched when Wade’s hand suddenly shot out, grabbing the back of Peter’s chair. Putting his weight into it, he rolled Peter into the next room so hard, Peter kept rolling when Wade let go. As Peter slowly to a stop, spinning in a half-circle, Wade shut the door behind him. Peter shifted uneasily, bracing his feet against the floor and rolling around to face Wade.

The new room was little bigger than a supply closet, but bare enough that it didn’t matter. It didn’t take much for Wade to advance on him, to brace himself on the arms of the chair, and to loom over him. His mask was impossible to read and, without the emotions it normally displayed, Peter felt off balanced in the worst of ways.

“Wade,” Peter said very quietly.

Wade paused inches from Peter’s face. He stared hotly into Peter’s mask.

“Skrulls,” he said shortly.

“Huh?”

“Skrulls,” Wade said again. “Magic. Daydreams. Hallucination?” Without any warning, he pinched Peter’s chest.

Peter jerked. “Ouch! You’re supposed to pinch yourself, jackass.”

“That’s not nearly as fun,” Wade told him severely.

“Take my mask off,” Peter ordered, mollified when Wade did just that. “See?”

“See what?” Wade said thickly. “A Skrull?” But his voice was wavering just a little.

Peter started frowning. He didn’t just de-mask for anyone, after all. Huffing, he said, “Well, what would prove my identity to you?”

“Hm.” Wade’s eyes turned into suspicious slivers. “Sounds like something a Skrull would say.”

Was Wade seriously doing this? “Bite my ass,” Peter said flatly.

“Sounds like something my husband-” Any teasing Wade was about to build up to abruptly cut off. He stood, stepping away from Peter, and it was like any progress Peter had made was suddenly gone. “It’s okay,” Wade said dully. “I have one last test that will provide once and for all that you’re some hack in a Peter costume.”

Peter rolled his shoulders, prepared for anything. A pop quiz of anything and everything they’d ever done together. A slap off with rubber chickens. A recitation of all Wade’s favorite _Golden Girls_ episodes, backwards. A blindfolded game of Uno.

But, instead, Wade turnespoken around, gripping the back of his mask. He pulled it over his face, revealing blood shot and watery hazel eyes. There was a flush across his uneven cheekbones, the kind of red he only got when he was well and truly angry. His mouth was pale and pressed into a thin, chapped line, and dried blood had made a path down his ears and around his neck. 

Peter couldn’t help his reaction. Wade didn’t de-mask for just anyone either. Even for Peter. There was always a hesitation, like some deep part of him was questioning if it was still okay. But it was okay. It was more than okay. Peter always smiled when Wade pulled off his mask, helplessly pleased, and now—even now—was no exception.

And Wade could see it in his face. His expression crumpled up, and his eyes clenched shut. “What the fuck, Peter?” Wade asked in a heavy voice. He really did think Peter was dead.

Peter needed to fix this. He sat up straight in his chair. “I fucked up,” he said plainly. Wade opened one eye, peeking at him. “I let the NYPD use some of my extra suits. Spidey Clone Army 2.0, right? But legit this time. But some asshole employed by the Benefactor killed one of them while they were dressed as me. I offered to take their place in an undercover operation to root out the Benefactor-”

“And that’s it,” Wade interrupted harshly. Even so, he was facing Peter, coming closer in small steps. He was making eye contact, he was _listening_. “That’s what happened.”

“Well… yeah,” Peter said, looking up at him. “Why?”

Wade’s expression was hard to read, at once too loose and too tense. He vibrated in place, hands flexing and unflexing at his side. Jerkily, he pulled his “sword” free of its makeshift “sheath”, then dropped his sad attempt at a utility belt to the floor.

“I’m so angry at you right now,” he said finally, like he was commenting on the weather. Then he promptly climbed on Peter’s lap, grabbed his jaw, and dragged him in a heated, toe curling kiss.

Peter, stunned, didn’t do anything about this for several solid seconds. Then, energized, Peter pushed back into the kiss, one arm ripping free to wrap around Wade’s broad shoulders. Wade always did this to him, making him go from zero to sixty in an instant, like Peter could roll out of bed like a zombie and immediately sprint up the side of a skyscraper. 

Peter wanted—abruptly, whole heartedly, incandescently. Like a lit match hitting a paper doused in gasoline. 

But Wade instantly pinned his arm back on the chair. “Be. _Polite_ ,” he said, punctuating that with a sharp nip on Peter’s lip. His other hand dragged through Peter’s hair, blunt nails scraping against Peter’s scalp.

Peter shivered. Wanting to touch, Peter let out a needy, distressed noise against his mouth, which did nothing but provoke a chuckle and another round of messy, wet kissing Peter could feel in the tips of his fingers. Then Wade was shoving him back, tearing at his vest, trying to get at skin. Wade opened up it enough and gave him a stinging, vengeful hickey on his collarbone that Peter couldn’t help but arch up into. Peter flexed and squirmed and pressed up against Wade as much as he could, wanting anything Wade had to give.

But they were not small men, and the chair Peter was taped to could only take so much. They tipped back too far and, together, they fell. Peter was saved from slamming his head into the ground by Wade’s well-placed palm, but the rest of Wade’s weight went straight into Peter’s gut.

All of Peter’s air flew out of him at once. Wade’s weight wasn’t a problem. Peter could literally bench press several Wades, much to Wade’s delight. The problem was a sudden and weird sense memory. A memory of carrying Wade’s lifeless body away from Fisk’s office, a bone deep awareness that the man he loved so much was dead even for a moment. Peter closed his eyes against it, body as stiff as a board.

He didn’t get a chance to dwell in the memory for too long. He was being petted and spoken to so gently, Peter couldn’t help up unclench enough to hear what was being said.

“-ney, are you okay? My bad, Petey. And just when things were starting to get interesting-”

Peter yanked Wade down so hard, he could feel Wade’s heartbeat. Or maybe it was his own.

Wade struggled a bit against Peter’s grip, barely managing to detach himself enough to hold himself up on bent arms. He was straining awfully hard to keep his weight off Peter and back on his hands and knees. “You’re… not… very polite, honey.”

“You jumped Fisk in front of me, _honey_ ,” Peter retorted, voice clear. He arched up, breaking the rest of the tape holding him to the chair. Then he pulled a leg up until he could plant his heel into the seat of the chair. He kicked it away from them with force. “Let’s just say some of the anger is mutual.”

He pulled Wade down to him again, and, this time, Wade let him. Mumbling something about a clingy boy, Wade softened up, letting Peter touch and kiss and run his hands all over Wade’s body. He gave Peter the space to indulge and to forget, for just a moment, that they were deep in an abandoned office building surrounded by criminals, victims, and people who were both at the same time.

For just a moment, Peter could breathe.

-

They came in through the window. She figured they would, given what happened in her apartment. This time around, though, she had no Spider-Man to keep the window shut. Yuri fired off six shots before she registered the red and gold armor. A different kind of fear gripped her then. If the Benefactor had infiltrated even the ranks of their local superheroes, she might as well give up now.

Not willing to do that just yet, she bolted for the door and ripped it open. She froze then, backing up slowly as the Winter Soldier lifted his eyes from the floor. He met her gaze and advanced into the unit slowly, almost apologetically.

“Captain Watanabe!”

Yuri pivoted, noticing Jessica Jones climbing in through the window after Iron Man. The other woman was just a bit breathless with pink cheeks and a windswept expression. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Jessica tensed when Yuri lifted her gun, aiming between Ms. PI’s wide brown eyes. “Bad things happen to people who look for me,” Yuri promised darkly. “Maybe you should take a hike instead?”

“Whoa now,” said Tony Stark, his helmet fading away from his head. He stepped in front of Jessica and lifted up both of his gauntleted hands. Backing up, Yuri whipped her gun and aimed it at the Winter Soldier, making him stop in his silent approach. Obligingly, he lifted his hands up too. At the same time, Stark said, “Let’s talk about this-”

Despite those words, something red and ethereal wrapped around Yuri’s gun and yanked it out of her hands. No matter how hard she tried to grab it again, it was like her side piece was coated in butter. Unrestrained, the gun floated over to another woman ducking in through the window. She was younger than Jessica Jones and striking in a way that was hard to describe. She was wearing a long red jacket. “No need for any of that,” she said in a blunt Sokovian accent.

She was an Avenger, Yuri remembered suddenly, but which one? Yuri didn’t tend to track those kinds of things, and she sure as hell didn’t appreciate it now, unarmed by strangers whose motives were unknown to her.

Cornered and hostile, she kept trying to cover her back and keep all of them in her line of sight. It was extremely difficult, so she kept her head on a swivel. The Winter Soldier had closed the door behind him quietly and was currently leaning on it. Across the room and with the weapon retrieved, Iron Man ignored them all, reading something on his arm. The Sokovian Avenger was the only one who watched her unblinkingly, but she didn’t move from the windows. Next to her, Yuri’s gun spun lightly in the air.

Yuri watched it, swallowing. She’d have it back before the end of the night, she thought vengefully. She swore it.

Only Jessica approached her, and she did so with wide open hands. “Relax,” she said, like she could talk. The other woman was a bundle of tension right now, not that Yuri cared. “I’m sorry we startled you. We’re just tracking a tag Spider-Man puts on all of his suits.”

_All_ of his suits? Yuri’s stomach dropped, her mind going instantly to Henderson. She puffed up defensively. “And that gives you leave to break into people’s homes, huh?” she snapped harshly.

“I’ve been to your apartment, Yuri,” Jessica snapped back. “This ain’t it.”

“It doesn’t matter. This is a private residence, and you have no warrant and no right to claim probable cause. This is a violation of Constitutional-”

“The ping’s coming from this direction,” Stark said suddenly, walking away. He was making a beeline for the deep freezer.

Yuri darted in front of him, forcing him to a stop. “Get out,” she barked. “This is breaking and entering. Harassment. Intimidation. Interference with a police investigation.” She pointed a finger at the Sokovian. “ _Assault._ You take one more step-”

“Or what?” Stark challenged her. They were standing toe-to-toe now. “Your precinct has been the very opposite of helpful for the last two days. Finding Spider-Man’s body should have been the _least_ you people could do. But you dropped the ball, so _we’re_ stepping up to the plate.” His jaw jutted out and his eyes sparked with a wild anger. “So make my day. Pile on the charges, I don’t care. In the meantime, you’re going to move, and I’m going to look at the suit so we can mark it off our goddamn list and be on our way. I-”

Suddenly, Stark cut off whatever he was going to say. He looked at the readout on his arm, then the room behind her. He checked the readout again. He blinked rapidly. Then, quietly, he said, “Why- Why is the ping coming from a deep freezer?”

Yuri’s mouth tasted like acid. She felt sick. But his reaction still struck her. If she was anywhere but in her own shoes, she would have marveled at the instantaneous 180 in his affect. In the moment, though, it was agonizing. Stark’s face was paralyzed and his eyes were very wide, all anger gone from his expression. It reminded her of going to one of her officer’s homes and telling their families that their loved one would never come home again. The families always already knew what her news was, but that never stopped them from standing there with those pleading expressions. They never stopped them from begging her to tell them that they were wrong.

“It’s… It’s not what you think,” she croaked.

Stark stared at her woodenly, expression ashen. There was a noise behind her and suddenly Jessica was pushing past, approaching the deep freezer with urgent caution. She hesitated for a second, then pulled up the top, revealing a frozen body in an all too familiar red and blue suit.

No one reacted. Not immediately, anyway. The Winter Soldier stepped away from the door, coming closer. Stark stiffly turned away, and the Sokovian Avenger hid her face in her hand. It was very, very quiet.

Then Jessica sucked in a breath, backing up a step. “We’ll need- We’ll need to tell his family.”

“No need for any of that,” said the Winter Soldier, tone flat.

Finally, there was a reaction out of Stark, one of anger and deep scorn. “What, did HYDRA brainwash the humanity out of you too?”

The Winter Soldier glanced at Stark but didn’t rise to the bait. He stepped up, standing side to side with Yuri. Then he angled a glance in her direction, eyebrows knitted together. “Ma’am, would you like to explain or should I?”

His expression was knowing. She resented it, not ready for all of this to unwravel. “Go to hell,” Yuri rasped, already dreading what he had to say.

He shrugged, then walked up to Jessica. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at Henderson. “First of all, this ain’t Spidey. Look at the hands. No gloves here, see? Spidey uses his hands for everything. They’re beat up—fingernails busted, joints enlarged, palms tough-”

“You’re telling me that you can identify someone just based on their hands?” Stark demanded, echoing Yuri’s thoughts.

Now Stark was the lucky recipient of a disbelieving glare. “You coded an AI that was able to pick up the most minute physical differences in even poorly recorded video,” the Sokovian Avenger challenged him. “And, with it, you discovered the Spidey Clone Army.” She whipped a hand in the direction of the Winter Soldier. “Are you really questioning that fact that he can pick up some of those differences too?”

“Besides, Tony,” drawled the Winter Solider, “since when has Spider-Man had calluses from handling a _gun_?”

“…Okay. _Okay_.” Then, grudgingly, Stark said, “Sorry, Barnes.” His helmet snapped up around his face. He trudged over to the freezer and looked down into it.

Jessica moved closer to Stark. “FRIDAY got anything to say?”

“When doesn’t she?” Then Stark said something that took Yuri’s entire world and put it on its ear. “This is, by my guesses, probably someone between the ages of 18 and 24. Wrong place, wrong time, maybe? Don’t know how he got the suit. Suit’s definitely genuine.”

18-24. AKA the ages of most of their cadets in the police academy. Not the age of a detective who’d been in the force for quite some time.

“You’re wrong,” Yuri bit out venomously. Stark turned to her, clearly having forgotten she was in the room. Yuri didn’t care. Her ears were ringing. “He should be forty, not a kid.” 

“Um. Spider-Man’s not forty,” Jessica said. “Not yet, anyway.”

Yuri made a face. “Not Spider-Man. The man in the freezer.” Sucking in a breath, she stood at a loose parade rest and reported the facts. “His name is Henderson. He was 38 when he was murdered by an unknown assailant and left on the steps of the Daily Bugle. He was a detective for the NYPD.”

The Winter Soldier— _Barnes_ —still looked dubious about that. But he humored her. “Any outstanding physical traits?” 

That was a harder question than she expected. Still, she tried. “He’s, he’s- He’s 5’9’’ and some change. Has dark hair and a scar from a shootout on his left shoulder. Blue eyes. He’s an on again, off again smoker.” She used to tease him for the yellowing stains on his fingers. He used to aim his used cigarette butts at a No Smoking sign taped to his trash can.

“5’11’’, probably-” Stark muttered. She ignored that—it was close enough.

“Not a smoker,” Barnes said. Yuri ignored that too. Henderson was in an off period of smoking, and they’d all been hopeful that he would be able to quit this time.

“And this kid’s blond,” Jessica interrupted, pointing at the freezer. “If you were wondering. See here-”

That was the one piece of evidence Yuri could not reconcile. Needing to see it herself, Yuri pushed past Jessica and looked—really looked at the corpse she had dragged from the crime scene. His head had been caved in. She’d never looked closely. Never wanted to. She was already grieving the loss of two of her men. Having to deal with a third, she had been completely overwhelmed at the time.

But she was starting to see what they saw.

A 18-24 white male with blond hair poking through a shredded Spider-Man mask. 5’11’’, 190 pounds. Nonsmoker. Defensive wounds—and yes, gun calluses too.

The man was still dead of a very obvious head wound, but… 

If this wasn’t Henderson, then who the fuck was this? And where the _hell_ was Henderson?

-

Wade was good. Real good. What about you? Comfy? Well fed? Bet you need a glass of water though. Go get it! Wade could wait.

Because Wade was good. Fantastic, even. The world was just perf, if you asked him. And why?

Well, that was because Peter was there, of course!

And, to think, just thirty minutes prior, he’d been gearing up to throw down with that Taskmaster wannabe only to pull off his mask and reveal Petey’s grumpy, adorable, sleep-deprived face looking right at him. Wade didn’t use the word squee much, but mother fucking _squee_.

So this had to be the end of the story, right? Wrap up the plot and cue the end credits, y’all, because Wade had found his boo. Except, sike, there would be no easy wrap up because his lovely bunch of coconuts had stepped in it with like this was _21 Jump Street_ with murderers and no Channing Tatum. It still pissed Wade off.

Undercover assignments were awful, and so not in Petey’s wheelhouse. They weren’t even in _Wade_ ’s wheelhouse, and he had done an awful lot of weird things for some extra moolah, up to and including serving margaritas in a skimpy crop top to tax dodging Americans in the Cayman Islands.

And now Peter’s squeaky hamster wheel of a brain was on full spin of guilt, duty, and all that nonsense. He was sitting in Wade’s arms, back to Wade’s chest, and his body was winding tighter and tighter by the second. Wade was expecting this bubble would burst at any moment. Peter was just stalling by sharpening up the needle.

A minute later—and right on time—Peter said, “We really shouldn’t have done this.”

Cue shocked Pikachu face. “I dunno. Brings back old memories, doesn’t it?”

They were literally in a corporate supply room, albeit an abandoned one. Full fucking circle, man. Grinning, Wade pressed his face into the back of Peter’s neck.

Peter sighed for about a year, staring up at the ceiling. Although he’d participated quite enthusiastically at the time, he didn’t have as much fondness as Wade for their memories of getting frisky in various rooms at Oscorp. “So. Take it you didn’t get my letter.”

“Hah! Bold of you to assume I read.” Wade tugged on a lock of Peter’s hair. “It’s okay, though. I knew you weren’t dead.”

Sort of. Well, he was 90% sure. 75% maybe. Okay, about 45% towards the end. Jugs really did a number on his self-confidence.

“Then what were you doing?” Peter asked. Wade froze. “How did you think this was going to end?”

“…Thought I’d find you under a giant mason jar somewhere.” Wade mimed a trapped Spidey tapping on the glass. “Click click. Click click-”

“Did you? Because you seemed pretty murdery for a guy who assumed I was locked up on a shelf somewhere.”

Ah. And there it was. The thing he hated most about dating a superhero. If he was dating a supervillain, they wouldn’t blink twice about Wade fucking destroying whoever hurt them. Hell, they would expect it.

But Wade had actually been good for once. Kind of. Sort of.

“I didn’t kill anyone.” Lightly maimed, maybe. Threatened to, definitely. “I didn’t even _try_ to kill anyone. Honest.”

“Are you sure about that?” Peter challenged. He pulled away and, reluctantly, Wade untangled his arms from Peter’s body. This was more of face-to-face kind of conversation. All the better for Wade to be glared at.

But Peter still wasn’t facing him. He was standing up suddenly and away—so far away. Wade made grabby hands after him.

Peter bent over, picking up his shirt and dragging it back on. “I was in the room when you busted through the window like a fool.”

Was he? Oops. “I’ll cop to that one. My b.” Wade shrugged. “When I saw Fisk’s cueball of a head, I couldn’t help myself. I had to try and kill him, and I _shan’t_ apologize. He deserved it. He almost turned your Spidey onesie into a twosie before we even met.” Wade crossed his arms over his chest, pouting at the thought. He couldn’t even imagine a world where there was a ‘Pool with no Spidey.

That was like a world without peanut butter and jelly! Or better yet, peanut butter and _chocolate_. Wade would kill for a Reese’s right now, is what he was trying to say.

Peter paused. Then, awkwardly, vest in hand, he turned to Wade. “…How did you know about that?” There was something tentative and vulnerable in the way he said it, like Wade had expressed knowledge of a middle school crush and not, like, you know, an important event in an important superhero’s history of superheroing.

Sighing, Wade shoved himself to his feet. “Peter, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I take unhealthy obsession to a whole new level.” He crossed his arms over his chest, staring down his lovely boy. “Last year, when I was hunting you down? I knew everything about you. Your skills. Your strengths. Your weaknesses. Every major throwdown you had since you baby powdered your way into your first suit. How you took your coffee. Which food trucks gave you free meals. Your schedule.” Peter stared back at him, wide eyed. “Hell, I even knew that you outsourced Spidey before Tony “Big Brain” Stark figured it out! The _only_ thing I didn’t know was your identity.”

“But that was…” Peter flattened his hand against his stomach. “I didn’t think anyone would tell you about _that_.” After a pensive pause, he shrugged his vest over his shoulders, still visibly troubled.

Wade paused, then put a pin in his incredulity for a second. Clearly, Peter’s run-in with Fisk was one of the “Life Changing Events”. Wade needed to tread carefully.

And, of course, what better way was there to tread carefully than to start by shoving his foot firmly in his mouth.

“Murdock ratted you out. There. You twisted my arm, made me throw him under the bus, you monster.” Peter rolled his eyes, to Wade’s relief. More seriously, Wade said, “It was why he didn’t like seeing you on the streets so much. He thought he could have done more to shield you from that.”

“I don’t need to be shielded or protected.”

Wade laughed loudly and with zero humor. Reaching out, he tweaked Peter’s nose. “It’s a good thing you’re cute, because you’re really pissing me off right now.” He said that brightly, with friendship and zest, and it wouldn’t have been the first time that day he’d said it either.

But that didn’t stop Peter from looking surprised. “Are you mad at me?”

“Furious,” Wade said cheerfully, turning it into a six syllable word.

Peter looked at him, visibly bothered by the idea of that. It was adorable. His need to be obstinate was warring with his need to please. “Okay… how do I fix that?”

Wade laughed again, still not very amused. He should have expected that. “You’d never do it.”

Peter’s stubbornness was shining bright like a diamond. “Uh, who says?”

“You’re too good of a person,” Wade said easily. He kept smiling. “Too committed. You’ll feel guilt for hurting me, but you won’t stop. You’ve always been true to yourself.” Wade admired that about him, even when it stabbed icy shards of fear into his beating heart.

Wade was committed to seeing Peter live both happy and healthy as long as his lifestyle and genetics allowed him. It was just his dumb fucking luck that his honey badger was bound and determined to race towards the grave before he even had a single gray hair. And he would look _so good_ with gray hair.

“Relationships are full of compromises, Wade,” Peter said, missing the point.

“And this isn’t an area you’ll compromise in. Trust me.” Wade said firmly. He poked Peter’s cheek, delighted he could do it. “It’s okay. I’m bendy.”

This wasn’t satisfactory. “Try me,” Peter demanded, eyebrows furrowing.

“Okay.” Wade dropped his smile. He stepped in close to Peter, gripping him by both shoulders. “I already have an exit plan, and I’ll stop being mad at you if you drop everything and come with me.” His hold on Peter’s shoulders tightened just a fraction. “You and I, we can be out of here and back in my apartment in thirty minutes or less, 100% money back guarantee.”

As Wade predicted, Peter immediately balked at the idea. “Exit plan?” Peter bent backwards to avoid him. “What about Johnny and Matt?”

“They’re grown ass adults with superpowers, let them handle their own problems.”

Peter was reddening, getting worked up. He pulled back harder and Wade let him go, let him put distance between the two of them. “And the gambling and the assaults and the kidnappings and _the murders_? We’re just supposed to leave all of that behind too, huh?”

Peter was getting angry. He clearly wanted Wade to admit these things mattered to him—and they did. They super did. Just not as much as Petey. “Sounds like the NYPD’s problem,” Wade said flatly.

“What about guys like Brito and Montana and the Ox?”

“Oh, you mean criminals breaking laws? If only there was a semi-impartial force designed to deal with people who break laws… _oh wait_.”

“What about the demis? The people with bomb collars?” That was a low blow. Peter knew how much the victimization of the genuinely helpless got under Wade’s skin.

“Not my problem.” Wade crossed his arms behind his head flippantly, kicking out a foot. “They are the masters of their own destiny, and boy did they steer wrong-”

“People are dying, Wade!” Peter cried out.

“It was happening before you knew about it,” Wade said ruthlessly, “still happening now you know about it, and it will continue to happen well after you stop caring about it.”

Wade couldn’t have hit Peter harder even if he had slapped him in the face. Wade had to turn away from Peter’s devastated expression. The problem with having an adorable superhero for a lover was facing the fact that said adorable superhero wanted—longed—to save everyone. The world was shitty and awful with cruel monsters of human beings. People were going to die screaming, in pain, and in terror no matter how many hours they put into this job. The best they could hope for as superheroes in the report card of life was a C-.

Petey had more than earned his C-. Wade, on the other hand, was still struggling to work his way up from an F. He knew that. Peter knew that. The world knew that.

Still, though, Wade had a point to make. “Leave them to live or leave them to die. Either way, we leave, and we leave now.” Wade turned sharply back to Peter. Then, gently, he knocked their foreheads together. “So. Let’s. Just. _Go._ ”

Wade laid his proposal out on the line like a prized dessert, and then he waited. But Peter didn’t respond the way Wade expected him to. Peter just closed his eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. He didn’t condemn Wade. He didn’t lecture him about what it meant to be a superhero. He didn’t even castigate Wade for being so heartless.

Instead, he breathed and he breathed. And then he opened his eyes. There were tears in them. “I can’t do that,” he whispered, genuinely upset at disappointing Wade.

Wade immediately softened. “I know,” he said just as quietly. Wade kissed the end of his nose and patted his cheeks twice. “That’s why I’m bendy.” He looped his arms around Peter in a tight hug, one that Peter was quick to reciprocate. 

“…You’re a jerk,” Peter mumbled into his neck. It was probably not a good idea to play with his emotions after he’d seen one of Wade’s deaths, Wade realized belatedly. Peter wasn’t nearly as cavalier about Wade dying as other people were.

Wade squeezed him a little harder. Wade wasn’t exactly cavalier about Peter’s death either.

-

Tony felt like he’d aged ten years in the last hour. Finding that kid in the Spider-Man suit in the freezer almost made him throw in the towel then and there. The fact that it wasn’t actually Peter was the only thing keeping him upright and moving. Well, that and an exceptionally stubborn private investigator.

It was Jessica who kept them on target and thinking of next steps. Given that Yuri was being targeted by the Benefactor, it was important to secure her. Fortunately, SHIELD was offering limited help in that regard. It was a priority to move Yuri to one of the local SHIELD facilities first, then send a team to pick up the body in the freezer.

Speaking of which, finding out that the corpse in her freezer was not her detective was devastating to Yuri Watanbe. She lost all of her fire, and she hadn’t exactly been 100% when they sprang on her the first time. There were bags under her eyes. Her throat was a livid red, her voice was scratchy, and her left cheek was swelling. She had blood on her collar and under her fingers, and she wouldn’t even begin to explain how they got there.

They were taking the elevator down to the ground floor. Their ride would be there shortly, and they were all going to get in the car. Disarmed and aware of their destination, Yuri wasn’t a threat anymore. Tony had even dropped the suit. Even so, Steve had trained them well. Wanda and Tony led the group while Barnes picked up the slack in the back. Jessica kept in sync with Yuri herself, trying to get her to talk.

“You don’t understand what’s going on here,” Yuri said dully.

“We're trying to understand,” Jessica told her. “We know you were running from something. A stalker, maybe? We found where he was staying as well as some of the pictures he’d taken of you.” Yuri didn’t react. “Someone trashed your apartment, and you haven’t been seen around in days. Not even your boss knew where you were at.”

“There’s a traitor in the NYPD,” Yuri said distantly.

“Oh,” said Tony. “So you already know Ryker’s inmates have infiltrated your precinct.”

For the first time since he came through her window, Yuri suddenly sparked with life and vitality—and, most importantly, anger. “No, I didn't fucking know that,” she snapped. “I know my people down to the last person. There weren't any inmates in my precinct. At least, not up until two or three days ago.”

“So they came in with O'Leary?” Jessica asked, shooting a glance at Tony. That fit with their suspicions.

But Yuri paused. She didn’t know how to respond to that.

Wanda pushed open the door for all five of them. Then she stopped, squinting suddenly at the street. Tony stepped up behind her and immediately saw what she was reacting to.

“Well, isn't that continent.”

One squad car, two squad cars, three and four—there were cops as far as the eye can see. More pulled in, blocking off the street from any access. Movement on the adjacent roofs caught Tony’s attention. There were guns pointed at them from almost every direction. He shuffled backwards slightly.

Then Yuri stepped behind him. “If you turn me over to them, I'm dead,” she said flatly, glaring out into the street.

“I’m aware, thanks.”

Behind one of the squad cars, an NYPD officer pulled out a megaphone and finally addressed them. “Avengers!”

“And _Defender_ ,” Tony muttered.

“Give it a rest,” Jessica hissed, eyeing the officers closest to their left.

“You are under arrest. Come out with your hands up.”

“Under what circumstances?” Barnes called out tersely.

The man with the megaphone conferred with his superior. Then he said, “Breaking and entering. Interfering with a police investigation. Falsely imprisoning a NYPD officer.”

Yuri snorted. “Well, they’re not wrong.”

“Under the circumstances, I think we can call this a citizen’s arrest,” Wanda told her.

“You can call it whatever you like _under your jurisdiction_ ,” Yuri sniped right back.

Tensions were high. The five of them made a tighter and tighter group as the seconds passed, but that wouldn’t save any of them if the cops started firing. He was wary of even putting back on his suit, lest that trigger a series of events no one on either side wanted.

“What do we do?” Barnes asked, watching as more squad cards filled up the road. “Steve’s gonna be pissed.”

Tony made a decision. “Back up,” he said quietly.

Jessica looked at him. “What?”

“Back in the apartment building, now,” Tony clarified sharply. They were at a disadvantage with all of these guns trained on their position. They needed something between them and the NYPD officers, and they needed it yesterday.

Tony had been in standoffs before, but never with their own boys and girls in blue. This wasn’t going to end well at all.

“This is going to fuck up your reputation,” Barnes predicted.

“Why don't you let me worry about that?”


	15. Chapter 15

There were no more matches. There were no more armed guards. And, an hour ago, they found out there was no more food. Peter immediately defined this as dicey and hunted down Matt.

Matt and Johnny did a good job of keeping the demis together and calm. Peter couldn’t claim the same for the so-called talent. Someone had already stabbed someone else for half a bag of crackers, and that was before Peter even knew about the food crisis. On their side of the building, the fighters were currently ripping up everything and anything they could, looking for a secret stash of food. Peter didn’t know what outcome would be worse—them finding it or them not finding it.

In any case, Matt had zero answers for him. “Something’s going on, and I can’t figure out the end game,” he admitted.

“Fisk’s house of cards has to crash eventually,” Peter said. “You can’t just break out of prison, break a bunch of other people out of prison, do all this, and expect to be a free man at the end of the day.”

Matt grimaced. He swayed a little closer to Peter, dropping his volume. “Between you and me, I’m not sure Fisk cares to get out of this _alive_ , let alone free.”

That didn’t sound like Fisk at all, the self-made criminal businessman who always engineered himself a way out. “What about his wife and kid?” Peter asked.

“Last time I asked, I woke up in the infirmary.” Matt rubbed the yellowing bruises over his neck. “I’ve learned it’s a rather… hot button topic.” He paused for a moment, then admitted, “And I still have nothing on the C4, by the way.”

“Great.” Peter rooted around in his vest and pulled out a manila envelope. He tossed it to Matt. “From Brito with love,” Peter said sarcastically.

Matt caught it, looking confused. With careful fingers, he opened it up and pulled out what looked like an Altoids tin. Though disappointed at the grant reveal, Peter was kind of relieved the tin was on Matt now instead of Peter. If the fighters had any idea that Peter was hoarding mints, Peter would be fighting off way more than a sense of impending doom.

But when Matt rattled the tin, it sounded like anything but mints. Matt’s eyes widened. “If this is what I think it is, I may have to return his affections,” he said slowly. Matt didn’t do giddy, as a rule, but he was treading awfully close at the moment.

Peter was immediately interested—and kicking himself for not peeking. “What is it?” It sounded flat, long, and singular.

“Don’t worry about it,” Matt said, gingerly sliding the tin in his pocket. “You need to focus on rallying the fighters instead.”

Peter laughed hollowly, thinking of the dead man who was stabbed over a couple of crackers. “And how do you expect me to do that?

“By any means necessary. But I imagine finding a way out is a nice way of promoting group cohesion.”

Easier said than done. But as Wade bluntly pointed out, escape was already in reach for someone like the two of them. All they had to do was get down to the garage. The fact that the elevator had stopped working when the armed guards disappeared was a snag, but an elevator car was really not as much of a requirement for them. In the name of mobility, Fisk’s people had left the keys for every car down there in one box—and each car key had copies. Even the heaviest partitions set up in the garage exits could be moved as long as Peter was still upright and functional. With the partitions out of the way and the car secured, they would be able to drive straight out without an issue.

The real problem was getting everyone else out. Peter couldn’t expect people to scale an elevator shaft at all, let alone quickly enough not to be noticed or shot at.

“We’re not being watched anymore,” Peter said, thinking out loud. If he could recruit at least some of the fighters to help him, they might be able to figure out a way down without using the elevator shaft.

“We’re not being watched anymore in-person,” Matt corrected him. “The cameras in the hallways and common rooms are active. Don’t assume they aren’t milking those feeds for some kind of profit.” Matt shrugged a shoulder. “Some people will pay to watch people slowly lose their minds.”

“Great.” Peter was glad there wasn’t a camera in the storage supply closet he and Wade spent some quality time in, otherwise he’d have some uncomfortable explaining to do.

They parted, and Peter went to go recruit Ralph and Roy, both of whom were still groggy from being gassed. A building of this size wouldn’t not have stairs, and the fact that Peter hadn’t found any meant he hadn’t looked hard enough. Each floor was big, almost twice the size of Oscorp’s floors, and Peter had in no way mapped any of them out in the few hours they’d been here. Since the elevator stopped working, he also couldn’t discount the fact that maybe Fisk’s guys boarded up the doors to the stairs or hid them some other way. In either scenario, Peter’s hunt for the stairs would be greatly aided by a band of roving, hungry fighters with little else to do.

Peter knew he wasn’t going to be able to get all of them to cooperate, but he was hoping to snag at least Unit 62. The unit had bonded when they all survived a close brush with death, and it was made very, very clear by the unit that this bond did not include Peter. To them, the fact that he worked with a recruiter was damning, and the fact that he’d been spared the deathmatch? Suspicious. But Ralph was pretty good at getting people to do what he wanted, and this was not the first time Peter had relied on the superior people skills of others to get by.

But Peter never reached Unit 62.

Instead, the building all around him rumbled, and, all alone, he watched as all of the power and electricity in the hallway powered down and powered back up again. White noise and brief metallic screeching came out of speakers near the ceiling, and Peter suddenly felt a sharp sense of nauseating déjà vu.

With force, thumping music pushed out of the speaker, paired with the familiar shouting of the deathmatch announcer. “You wanted more? We heard you. You wanted blood? We. Heard. You. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our first round of **KILLLLL KAGEEEE**.”

The lights shut off and on again, and when they came on, so did a TV panel on the wall near Peter. He approached it slowly. The TV panels were installed in most major hallways, common areas, and conference rooms. The corridor he was in happened to have panels installed every two feet. He never questioned why they were there, as Oscorp had similar ones sharing company-wide announcements and carefully curated news reports. So Peter had ignored them, figuring the dusty displays were a relic from the previous owner. Fisk’s people had ignored them too.

But they were all lit up now, all at once, and they were brightly cycling through different camera feeds. One shot showed a man ripping up a floorboard. Another showed a group of twenty looking up at the ceiling, seemingly listening to the announcer. Another showed a group of five circled around another TV panel. Another showed Peter by himself in the corridor of panels. He turned abruptly, facing the source of the feed, and all of the Peters turned with him.

“Two hundred men and women are locked in two stories of death,” the announcer shouted with blood thirsty relish. “Betting starts now! Who will win, and who will be **killed**?” The lights shut off again, but only half of them turned on. The panel still blazed brightly in the semi-dark. “But let’s make this more interesting. KILL KAGE participants! Every person you kill will net you $1,000 a head—but that’s not all! Special bounties have been announced. If you kill one of these twenty lucky people, you will get an additional $20,000!”

On the display, four screens with five people each rotated. Peter was unsurprised to see that Matt, Johnny, and Peter had made the list, but he was very surprised to see that Brito, Montana, the Ox, and the Juggernaut were all marked for death too. He hadn’t even known the mutant was in the building. This was bad. 

Peter winced when a blaring alarm came through the speakers. “Sounds fun? Let’s go! KILL KAGE starts right nowww!”

His voice cut off abruptly, leaving only pumping, too loud music coming in through the speakers. The only music the announcer seemed to have on hand was metal and dubstep, but neither stopped Peter from hearing what was happening all around him. 

Pounding feet. Angry yells. Horrified screaming. Bargaining. Pleas. Threats.

Everyone was turning against each other. The Kill Kage had really begun.

Peter took off on a dead sprint towards the door at the end of the hallway, skidding only to a stop when it opened in front of him. A man was pushing it inward, squinting in the lower light. He was missing four teeth in the front—and, at the sight of Peter, he bared them all. He had a heavy bat with nails in it, and it was clear he recognized Peter from the displays.

“Oh goodie,” he hissed. “I got one of the smaller ones.”

“You chose poorly, pal,” Peter snarled back, preoccupied by the heavy drip of blood already pouring from the other man’s bat. Why was this happening? And who had already died?

Cackling, the stranger swung.

-

Jessica wasn’t supposed to be in this situation, surrounded by cops wielding guns with an even more hostile cop at her back. For a lack of any better options, they went back up to the unit with the dead John Doe. All around them, units were evacuated until the entire building was empty. Media swarmed the area and the skies. Random people were abusing her direct line in hopes of a fresh scoop.

Tony didn’t seem to have a similar problem. Instead, he had his phone open, face up, with an active line to the cops in charge of the standoff in the street.

The NYPD, of course, wanted the five of them to immediately surrender themselves into police custody. So far, Tony’s only demand was that SHIELD be looped into this. They denied that request. Having called Maria Hill separately, Wanda was able to confirm that she was being locked out of the proceedings and effectively stonewalled. The NYPD was claiming this as their jurisdiction, and they fully expected SHIELD to butt out.

It was a mess of epic proportions. Miscommunications abounded. Jessica knew they’d be happy to explain what was going on, but there was such an immediate threat of their words falling on deaf ears, they couldn’t help but dig in their heels and huddle in this trench they had dug for themselves.

Her phone rang, this time with a number she recognized. She answered it. “What.”

“So why am I hearing on the news that you’re kidnapping cops?”

Jessica winced. Then she pinched the bridge of her nose. Gwen Stacy needed to mind her own damn business. “It’s fine. It'll resolve itself soon.”

“The hell it will!”

“Look, I’m dealing with crooked cops here,” Jessica hissed, “and we don’t know _which one is which_. If we trust the wrong person, someone important with valuable information will end up dead.” Yuri looked up at that descriptor, frowning. Peeved at the other woman, Jessica turned her back on her.

“Well, I trust my dad. Can you trust me?” Before Jessica could say anything, Gwen said quickly, “Because I already told him he could trust you. He’s on his way.”

Sure enough, chatter on the other end of Tony’s call indicated that leadership was changing. The former leader was rattled, and he stepped up his threats on them, trying to force them to surrender before he no longer had control of the operation. When he brought up Pepper Potts, Tony hung up the call. Visibly fuming, Tony called back a second later. He talked over the other voice on the phone, his words sharp, “Hi, yeah. Call me back when the real guy in charge is there. Thanks, bye.” He hung up again, ignoring his phone when it rang and rang and rang.

George Stacy moved fast.

Jessica was stunned. Turning back to her own phone call, she said, “You have a talent for getting your nose buried in things that are _none_ of your business.”

“And you have a talent for getting your face smashed in,” Gwen retorted cheerfully. Voice sobering, she then said, “I don’t know what’s going on, Jessica, but don’t make me regret trusting you.”

She hung up on Jessica, leaving Jessica to think about what that meant. Gwen had already been victimized and battered around by the conflicts that sprung up between people like Jessica and people like Norman Osborn. And yet she was still trying to help. It couldn’t have been easy to encourage her own father to get caught up in the crossfire.

They waited another five minutes before the incessant calls to Tony suddenly stopped. They sat around it, watching the phone. Even restless Yuri wandered close, glaring down at it like it stole her lunch money. They were all tense, and when it rang another two minutes later, Tony picked it up on the second ring, putting Chief of Police George Stacy on speaker just like his repugnant predecessor.

“Uh, good afternoon. Or night, was it?” Tony squinted at where the window was. At Yuri’s request, they’d covered it with furniture and the unit’s mattress. It blocked off anyone’s visual of the room they were occupying, but it also blocked their own visuals of what was going on outside.

“It’s late afternoon,” Stacy said. His voice was gruff, but non-combative. Jessica could almost believe this was a casual session of small talk. “Treading close to supper. I’m sure a lot of people want to go home right now. Don’t you?”

“Certainly,” Tony said. “I’d like this misunderstanding to be cleared up pronto.” Although his tone was light, Tony’s face was tense.

“Likewise. But you see, Mr. Stark, I don’t like talking to people hiding behind walls.” This again.

“Well, I don’t like going outside and having a bunch of guns aimed at my face,” Tony retorted.

“That’s fair.” Stacy seemed to shift on the other end. In the distance, people were calling out to each other. “If you ask me, the response to this little misunderstanding was disproportionate. Too many precincts responded to this when a simple, face-to-face conversation could have sufficed.”

“That’s-” Tony seemed uneasy. He looked up at Jessica then, a question on his face. “That’s right.” _Was he legit_ , Tony seemed to be asking her. Jessica didn’t know how to answer that. But Gwen asked her to trust him, and she was showing Jessica an awful lot of trust in return. On top of that, Rhodes himself had vouched for George Stacy and his support just a few days ago, and Rhodey had a good instinct for people. So Jessica gave Tony a tiny nod.

“I’m sending some of my people away. But I want that simple conversation, Mr. Stark, and I want it on the sidewalk just outside of the apartment building you took over.” Stacy paused. “My only question is, who will I be speaking to?”

It was clear he wasn’t expecting them to immediately surrender. Still, they weren’t sure how to react.

“Uh, give us a minute,” Tony said quickly, muting their end.

“Could be a trick,” Wanda commented, pinning her chin in her hand.

“That’s right,” Bucky said, standing. “That’s why I’m going instead.”

“The hell you are!” Tony rapidly pushed himself back to his feet as well. “It may come as a shock to you, but I’m somewhat partial to our boys and girls in blue. _Even_ the ones who keep giving me speeding tickets.”

“Are you implying that I’m going to kill them?” Bucky asked very, very quietly.

“Well, when all you have is a hammer, the world’s problems will eventually all start looking like nails.”

What a shitty thing to say. Across from him, Bucky was turning dull red. “Says the guy who invented an army of _killer robots_ -”

Jessica shot up then, interrupting their standoff. “Well, I don’t trust either of you, so both of you are going to sit down and work out your differences while _I_ go out and get shot up by the cops.”

“No,” Tony and Bucky snapped. Then they glared at each other hotly.

Jessica wasn’t the only one fed up with their bickering. “Jesus Christ, just jump in bed together already,” Yuri snapped. Wanda, watching this fight like a spectator at a tennis match, looked unexpectedly delighted at Yuri’s contribution. “Or, better yet, put a bullet in my brain so I don’t have to deal with this anymore!”

There was silence for a moment. Then Bucky pulled his eyes away from the floor. “Not alone, Jessica,” he said simply.

Tony shifted, then bit out, “What he said. All three of us, then?”

Bucky watched him warily. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Jessica said, sitting back down. She unmuted the phone. “Three of us will be meeting you outside on the sidewalk in five minutes.”

“That is acceptable. Thank you for your decision making in this difficult time, Miss Jones,” said Stacy. “I understand from my daughter that you prioritize conflict resolution over all else. We’ll need that today.”

Why did that sound like an omen rather than a statement of fact?

Wanda stayed with Yuri as the three of them went back down to the ground floor. Bucky and Tony stayed silent in the elevator, stewing over their own issues. This was Jessica’s preference anyhow, as it gave her the space to try and think of how they could move past this mess–and all the ways this mess could get even bigger.

She wanted to believe that George Stacy’s arrival was a turning point in all of this, but in her experience, things rarely wrapped up so neatly.

Stacy was already standing on the sidewalk by the time they came out. He was wearing a thick vest over a formal, long sleeve white shirt, and he had a radio clipped to his shoulder. His tie peaked out from under his vest, and his graying hair was messily swept to one side. He’d apparently come over in a hurry. While both of the officers next to him dropped a hand to their holstered guns, Stacy neglected to do the same, turning to Jessica, Tony, and Bucky instead.

“Thank you for coming,” Stacy said. “Three of us for three of you.” Jessica looked at his officers—a male and a female. They stared back, unfriendly. Stacy waved at the street. “As promised, we sent half of the officers away. The ones who have remained are under orders to stand down while we talk.” Stacy turned back to them expectantly.

“I’m sure we can find some common ground,” Tony said. The words were good, but he was still scanning the rooftops. Jessica had met a lot of damaged people in her times, but none were quite as paranoid as Tony Stark.

“Is there any truth to the reasons why my officers were called to your location?”

Tony and Jessica glanced at each other uneasily, but it was Bucky who responded. “Yes, we detained one of your officers. Initially due to suspicions around Spider-Man’s death.”

“A tragic circumstance,” Stacy assured him.

Impatiently, Tony said, “Yes, well, _now_ we’re detaining her because if we surrender her to you, she won’t last the night.”

Stacy’s eyebrows shot up. “Medical concerns? If that’s the case, you must release her-”

“No, that’s not the case,” Jessica interrupted. Stacy’s eyes dropped down to her. “You have corruption in your ranks, Chief. We have reason to believe that at least one of your precincts has been infiltrated by inmates from Ryker’s, and that at least one of your high ranking officers is being bribed to look the other way.”

Both of Stacy’s officers stiffened. Stacy remained calm. “What precincts?” he asked. “And which high ranking offer?”

Jessica opened her mouth, but she didn’t get a chance to respond. At the same time, George Stacy shifted to the left.

It saved his life.

The bullet meant for Stacy hit another target instead. One of Stacy’s officers fell to the ground, dead. The other pivoted immediately, pointing her gun at Stacy. Tony tackled the man around the middle, his nano suit forming slowly—too slowly—but Tony hadn’t been the only one moving. Bucky got between Tony and the crooked cop, and traded bullets. The cop’s bullet slammed into Bucky’s shoulder; his in her heart.

Bucky hit the ground with a muffled groan, and Jessica dragged him behind a car, ducking behind it herself as bullets flew. Stacy, rattled but quick thinking as always, was barking into his radio, demanding an explanation. Above them, bullets kept punching holes in their shield. Glass shattered, raining down on them, and, no matter what Stacy ordered, it didn’t seem to stop.

But the cops weren’t just shooting at them. They were shooting at each other.

“Off the street, back in the building,” Tony snapped, in his full armor. Using himself as a shield, he ushered them back up the stairs. “Now, now, now-”

With Stacy’s help, Jessica hauled Bucky back into the building, ducking back a thick wall the second she had a chance. She dared to look back as the door closed behind them.

It was chaos outside.

-

Wade shoved a techie’s face into one of the displays around the building. “What the shit is this?” he snapped.

Voice mangled by the pressure of the display on his face, the guy had the nerve to mumble, “It’s not personal, man.”

“Don’t feed me that bullshit. Look, I’m not on the highlight reel. Not even an honorable mention! Do you know how that makes a guy feel?”

Yes, thanks for asking—Wade _did_ catch a Fisk techie of his very own. Far from completely ignoring them, it looked like Fisk’s people were still monitoring the situation. When a panel near the elevator on the eighth floor started sparking, this jackass was sent down the elevator shaft to deal with it. He’d been wearing an image inducer too, only this one was tweaked to make him look invisible.

They should have tweaked better, because Wade saw him a mile away, and he had zero compunctions about suplexing the little nerd.

Under the techie’s face, the special bounty screens kept rotating. Two people already had a big X through their picture. As it did every two minutes, the special bounty list shifted to various camera angles on the eighth and ninth floor. The first shot showed an empty hallway. The next shot showed Peter being backed into a corner by three different men who all armed to the teeth.

Wade pressed the techie’s face against the screen so hard, the color started to warp. “If anyone kills my sweet baby grim reaper, I’m gonna lose it,” Wade said in a sing-song tone.

“Pretty sure he’s a mutant. He’ll survive another hour at least.”

Wade did a double take at this very specific observation, staring at his techie. His eyes narrowed. He leaned in menacingly. “Why are you interested? Got… _money_ on it?”

The techie started sweating. On the feed, Peter caught one man’s weapon midswing and yanked it free. He launched off the wall and kneed another, spectacularly, in the face. Five out of five as usual. Petey was doing just fine.

The next shot shifted to Wade menacing the techie. As he’d done at least five other times now, Wade threw a knife at the offending camera, intending to end the feed and lose Fisk just a little bit more money. This time, he missed. Oops.

The knife clanged when it hit the wall. It fell point down, narrowly missing the bare feet of one Matt Murdock, AKA Daredevil. Murdock paused, then picked up the knife. He tossed it behind his shoulder, hitting the camera with deadly accuracy.

Wade pouted at him. Then, distracted already, he said, “There’s something different about you. Did you cut your hair?”

“No. Just a gift from your… uh. Sweet baby grim reaper,” Murdock said, his voice deadpan. He shifted his attention to Wade’s techie. “No one from Team Fisk is going to save you. If you want to live, you’ll come with us and you’ll _be helpful_.”

Given a choice between Wade and the fair (but weirdly bloody) Matt Murdock, the techie didn’t waste time changing the course of his destiny. “…alright.”

“Get your own,” Wade said, but let him go.

The demis, unlike the fighters, had actually maintained stability through all of this. The fighters were being idiots, picking each other off as quickly as possible. The more intellectual and strategic of them formed groups and put up barricades, trying to limit the access of non-group members to their friends and allies.

Rallying behind Matt, the demis had done this from the start, successfully securing a third of the floor for themselves in the ten minutes the fighters had turned on each other.

A lot of people died in those ten minutes. A lot of people went after Wade too, stupidly, and Wade did his very best to avoid adding to the body count.

“Somehow, someway, Peter managed to get a collar card off of Wendy Conrad,” Murdock said suddenly, touching his naked throat. “We’re taking the collars off everyone we can find as we speak. But that’s not stopping people from trying to pick us off. Several of our barricades were lost. You’re not one of us, but I could use your help.”

Wade was never going to get used to people asking for help—and his help, specifically. It always made him feel warm and fuzzy. Still, though- “You have the Human Torch. If people were afraid of you because of the bombs, they’re definitely going to avoid you when he’s around.”

And Wade already knew Johnny was exercising his powers. Though more on the goody- two- shoe side of the scale than most, Johnny never hesitated to light up those who really deserved it. More than one person had raced away from the demi side of the floor, singed, burned, or actively burning.

Murdock nodded once. “I also want to get upstairs,” he said, getting to the point. “There’s a small collection of demis upstairs. Mostly old Fisk employees who earned a collar instead of a pink slip. And I don’t want to risk Johnny. He’s way more useful down here.”

Wade scoffed at that. “Yeah? You think? Because the Juggernaut’s upstairs. You know that, right? And he’s actually killing people. He’s the one who picked up two special bounties so far.” Seeing something out of the corner of his eye, Wade fixed that. “Oops, three.”

Murdock was unmoved. He looked even more beat up than he was before. His collar was ripped, and his mouth was bruised. One ear was bleeding, and his hands looked mangled, swollen and cut up as if they were from fighting. And still, he stood steady, resolute like a mountain standing in the way of a tsunami.

It was very clear that, if Wade didn’t go upstairs with him, Murdock would be going by himself.

“They don’t deserve to die here either,” Murdock commented, shoulders loosening. “The demis, I mean.”

“Yeah, I know,” Wade said thickly. Then, throwing up his hands, he shouted, “Ugh, fine! But if I get ripped in half again, _you’re_ paying for my new suit. And I don’t care how many boring, frivolous, mind numbing, court cases it takes to get you there. I expect _quality_ -”

And so the Kill Kage continued.


	16. Chapter 16

Peter opened up a crooked piece of a wall. It was badly hiding a crawl space. Inside of it, three men and one woman stared back at him, covered in dust and dirt and visible fear.

Peter hunkered down across them for a moment. Then, very quietly, he said, “I don’t care you worked for, how much you gambled, why you’re here, or what you had to do to survive.” He gave them a second to absorb that. “If you want to get out of here, follow me, and follow me silently. And I’ll do my very best to make sure you get out of this alive.”

Peter didn’t wait for their response. He knew better at this point. Instead, he replaced the wall and moved away, not expecting them to follow.

He was sore—both in body and in spirit. The parameters of the KILL KAGE were almost impossible to deal with. The ruthless took advantage of the weak almost immediately, and so more people were killed in the first five minutes than in any five-minute period afterwards. After that, people started grouping up to defend themselves or to score bigger bounties. This led to longer, bitter fights or, worse, horribly one-sided beatdowns. Peter tried to interfere in as many as he could, but it was hard when both sides wanted a chance at his own bounty.

The real game changer, ironically enough, was the Juggernaut.

The Juggernaut was not on their floor—not originally, anyway. He was actively fighting with someone upstairs for a while. In the process of that battle, he slammed a hole in the ground, inadvertently creating a walkable pathway up and down the eighth and ninth floors.

This was hardly the win Peter expected it to be. Now the Juggernaut was menacing two floors instead of one, and the Juggernaut was a hard person to hide from when he found you.

But fighting had virtually stopped. There was no group big enough or strong enough to get one over on the massive mutant, and any other conflict that occurred immediately caught the attention of that bounty hungry enemy. He’d already taken out most of the $20,000 bounty marks, and he had no problem grinding the rest of them for a few thousand dollars.

What a cruel manFisk had unleashed on them all.

Without a plan, Peter didn’t want the Juggernaut’s attention any more than anyone else did. He focused on getting out with as many people as possible. There were small pockets of people who were willing to follow someone who could find a way out. All Peter had to do was to convince them to work together.

Ralph and Roy helped. With them, Peter managed to salvage all but three people from Unit 62, and a handful of others. More people were interested in what they were doing, more than Peter was expecting, but few wanted to put their lives in Peter’s hands when he didn’t have a clean escape plan.

Then they caught a lead. As it turned out, Roy knew a guy who knew a gal who swore she watched some of Fisk’s men exit down an enclosed stairway. This finally galvanized people to work together. Roy raced to both find her and present her to Peter.

But when she showed then where it was, the revelation brought nothing but despair and threatened to scatter them completely. As Peter thought earlier, Fisk’s men did think to push a shelf in front of it, disguising it from view. But that wasn’t the problem.

The real problem was that the entrance to the stairway was behind where the Juggernaut was currently pacing. From around a corner, they watched him tear down a barricade like it was paper. Peter hoped there was no one on the other side.

Behind Peter, despair shifted to dissent and then to arguing.

“Why are we even going down to the garage in the first place anyway?” one of them moaned. “They barricade up that place like it’s a prison.”

“We’re doomed,” another one concluded morosely. That opinion had a rippling effect amongst the group.

But thankfully, Ralph had the bark of a military sergeant. “Hey. Petrelli is the one person here trying to save your collective asses from the goddamn Juggernaut. Show him some respect and listen.”

But Peter didn’t have much to say. Even here, where they were hiding in the communal area, the ground was littered with people. Some were dead. Some were injured. Some were unconscious. And one man—strangely, miraculously—was just sleeping. And that man was the exact distraction they needed.

Peter went back to the group and explained his plan. They thought it was crazy, and maybe it was. But crazy was all Peter had at the moment. And, if it worked, people needed to move, and they needed to move quickly.

Word went around. Within ten minutes, their group of seven grew to a group of 24. Peter stood alone, and they all crowded ten feet back from Peter. Others watched from an even further distance. Peter hoped their extra caution wouldn’t get in the way of their escape, but that was their decision.

Peter crept closer to his target, brick in hand.

In the communal room, stretched across two sagging couches was none other than the Ox. Somehow, the Ox had slept through a full hour of fighting, screaming, and near constant dubstep. Only his reputation kept his throat slit while he was snoozing. He snored shallowly, an arm tossed over his head. He seemed at peace.

Peter only felt slightly guilty about what he was about to do.

About ten feet away, Peter took his brick, pulled his arm back, and flung it with full force at the Ox’s face.

The Ox awoke with an enraged roar, sitting up. Peter flung himself behind a low wall just in time. Seconds later, an interested Juggernaut ambled back into the room. Seeing the Ox awake, he laughed. “Oh ho! You sleep like the dead, little man! I thought someone else got to you before I did.”

The Ox rubbed at the bleeding mark over his nose, eyes tight and mean. “You. You woke me up?” he rumbled, standing to his feet. He was smaller than the Juggernaut, but his rage blinded him to that. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

The two gigantic men collided, brutally attacking each other. Peter rolled out of the room and gestured quickly at the group to follow. Together, they ran towards the space the Juggernaut once was. The walls shook as the Ox and the Juggernaut continued to fight. Windows cracked and shattered, letting more light. The sound of Roy ripping the shelf away from the door to the stairway was lost in the sound of someone being tossed brutally to the floor.

Peter slowed, letting people push past him. Even in the stairway, they felt the reverberations of the fight flowing them down as people took two or three steps at a time. Peter lost count of them all around thirty. Remembering that there were more, he mourned the people who had already been killed or left behind, but he felt hope at the sight of the stragglers—the people who limped towards freedom or carried others on their shoulders.

Bounties were a cruel and effective tool to whittle down a population.

Ralph was the last of the people fleeing, and he planted two big hands on Peter’s shoulders, propelling him along. Even as he forced Peter to go faster, he was shaking, clearly scared.

“My daughter… will be very, very upset… if I die,” he said, in between wheezes.

Down and down and down they went. Even the fastest of them lost steam, escaping with a quick walk instead of a sprint. And finally, eight floors down, they found the door to the garage. The first one to hit the door was too exhausted to try the knob. The second did. By the time the seventh one made it to the finish line, there was panic.

The door wasn’t opening. More than one person threw their shoulder into it, trying to break it down, but it wouldn’t budge. Only then did Peter push him to the front, shouting for them to let him through. Ralph followed as the crowd, desperate for ideas, parted for him.

“It’s locked,” Roy said, already near the door. “Everyone’s tried to open it, Ralph. What are we supposed to-”

A little breathless, Peter didn’t wait for him to finish. He kicked the door with full strength, holding nothing back.

Made out of a thick metal, the door didn’t budge for him either. But the frame all around it sure as hell broke. As a whole piece, the door and its frame ripped out of drywall and plywood, landing heavily on the ground in front of them. Dust floated in the air, and, in silence, Peter stepped through the open hole.

And into an unusual scene.

It seemed like Fisk still had a skeleton force of people manning the garage—familiar people, at that. Outside of Brito and Mitch, Flanders and Mark were the first of Fisk’s employees that Peter ever met. Flanders appeared to be a paranoid stickler for rules, and he loved lording those rules over others. Mark, on the other hand, struck him as a young man who had perhaps responded to the wrong Craiglist ad, but was too complacent to do anything about it.

Flanders and Mark were manning the garage, it seemed, but something had happened. A tablet was left, abandoned, on the floor, the same feed from the displays looping on it. Wild eyed, Flanders himself turned to the group of them, an assault rifle balanced on his hip. Mark peeked around the edges of a desk he had turned over and was trying to use as a shield. The bullet holes in it were still smoking.

And at Flanders’ feet was an extremely dead Montana. Flanders, by choice or design, had joined the Kill Kage.

Flanders’ grin was a greasy, ugly thing. “Well, well, well. Look who it is? My retirement fund, wrapped up in a bow. My golden years will be golden indeed.”

He lifted up his rifle. The people behind Peter tried to rush back up the stairs, but the space was too tight. A few would escape the onslaught, but most of them would remain, caught by the bottleneck.

Peter watched this unfold as if he was far, far away. His senses screamed to jump, to run, to flee. But if he moved, Ralph was going to get half a magazine unloaded in his heart.

Three shots popped off. Peter flinched, his palm flying to his chest.

Flanders laughed. Then he laughed again, lurching forward a step. This time, the laugh fizzled out into a gurgle. He hit the ground knee first before collapsing entirely, three large bullet holes in his back.

Then a familiar voice came out of the darkness. “What happened to holding down the fort, Mark?”

Mark scooted from behind the desk, spinning around to face the voice. “I was doing it! I wasn’t expecting him to go freaking postal on me.”

Out from around a parked van, Daniel Brito approached. He stopped only a few feet from Flanders’ dead body. He loomed like a nightmare between them and freedom. His face was ashen and gray, his eyes were dull, and his normally perfectly coiffed hair was a mess. His purple vest was almost black with blood south of his sternum. He was limping and using a golf club as a walking stick.

And, in his other hand, he had a pistol.

“Welcome back to the garage,” Brito said flatly. After a moment, he smiled, aiming his pistol at them. “If you’d like to see daylight again, you’ll follow my instructions very, very carefully.”

-

George Stacy was marching back and forth in the hallway outside of the unit with the John Doe. He was fielding calls left and right—some on the radio, some on his phone. No matter who he talked to, his orders remained consistent: officers on the scene were not to move from their current location, and officers who would like to respond to the scene at Inwood Hill Park? Unless they were helping maintain the blockade around the area, they were ordered to stay far, far away from the developing situation. Anyone who failed to follow these orders would lose their badge.

Outside, the shootout had simmered down to a stalemate, and, so far, it seemed like Stacy’s orders were being heeded. But the problem was that the shootout was so chaotic, no one knew who shot who or from where. For all they knew, cops could be hunkering down next to someone who just killed their partner. It was a tough position to be in.

But Tony had a suggestion to how to solve it, and, because of that suggestion, Tony wasn’t Stacy’s favorite person right now.

It wasn’t fair. Not only did Tony save the chief’s life, he also did him a solid of figuring out how to locate all of the crooked cops on the scene. Once he realized that the shooting was too coordinated and well timed, Tony realized they had to be talking somehow. How else would they have known to shoot Stacy when he’d asked who the bribed official was?

Once he had that information, it only took FRIDAY, a slight tweaking of an SI satellite, a deep dive into localized communication frequencies, and, of course, Tony’s big damn brain to figure out that Stacy’s bad apples were talking to each other on a different radio band than Stacy’s good apples.

The problem was, said radio frequency was now only being sporadically used. The bad cops’ leader hadn’t updated his or her orders since Tony figured out how they were talking. Now, Tony didn’t know what any of them looked like more than the next guy, but if they provoked that person to speak to all of his or her minions at once, Tony could lock down on the locations of every person on that frequency within two blocks.

And then, with the power of Iron Man technology, Tony could end this little shindig with a single command. Stacy just had to say the word.

But Stacy wouldn’t say the word. And so, the stalemate continued.

Out there, the good cops rallying under someone named Jefferson Davis, a guy whose beat was normally in and around Brooklyn. But without a clear identifier of which cops were on the other side, all they could do was hunker down and stay vigilant of each other. This wasn’t ideal. Tony knew the bad actors had to be the Ryker’s inmates peppered into Yuri Watanabe’s precinct, but they weren’t able to confirm that. The situation was complicated by the fact that several precincts had responded to the call, and none of the captains or commanders of those precincts could attest to who exactly was present at the call.

Stacy was furious.

Just then, Davis reported a casualty as another officer succumbed to their wounds. Stacy bowed his head for a moment, then reiterated his order to prioritize medical care as much as possible. But his tone was dull and flat. There wasn’t much more his people could do. Wary of the shootout, ambulances were refusing their calls, even when officers volunteered to run their wounded coworkers blocks away from the situation. They had reason to turn down the request, as no one could assure them or guarantee that the shootout was indeed over. In fact, just a few minutes ago, a reckless cop broke his cover to try and pull a wounded friend closer to a squad car. He was lit up with bullets from several angles; dead before he hit the ground.

It was extremely frustrating and horrible to deal with. As much as Tony would have liked to go outside himself, he was warned not to, especially when there was a very good chance the mere sight of him would start up the shootout again and kill more cops.

They were well and truly stuck. But Tony could get them unstuck… if Stacy would give him the word.

The second Stacy ended his phone call, Tony started to speak. “George, we can end this,” he said, trying to push his solution again. “Right here, right now. You and I both know that the inmates-”

“The problem, Mr. Stark, doesn’t begin and end with Ryker’s,” Stacy interrupted. He turned to face Tony. “That woman I was with? The one who tried to shoot me? Who succeeded in shooting your friend? She was a career policewoman. Serious. Focused. Ambitious. In the force for over ten years. I mentored her. I trained her. I officiated her _wedding_. And she just tried to kill me.” Quieter, Stacy said, “I don’t know who to trust. And there are too many officers out there who are depending on me to make the right call.”

Tony understood. Tony understood a little too well. He also understood there was little he could say to help Stacy figure out a course of action.

Tony relented. “Then you should talk to Yuri,” he said. He backed up, reaching for the unit’s door. He opened it. “She’s been in your boat for three days. Maybe you can help each other?” With that said, he walked back into the unit, rubbing the back of his neck.

Barnes was sitting on a chair with his shirt off. Tony’s eyes, as they always did, jumped to that painful looking connection between flesh and metal. The arc reactor, while he had it, had been its own special kind of hell. He couldn’t imagine losing, then dealing with a heavy metal prothesis that was made to injure and kill.

That same prothesis was hanging loose at Barnes’ side, metal fingers curled idly around the legs of the chair. Jessica was behind him, focused on his other shoulder that was still sluggishly bleeding. Gauze circled her feet. She was green, but gamely trying to stitch his shoulder. A tweezer and a metal slug swam in a small pool of blood on the table. Tony was glad he missed that.

On the other side of the kitchen, there was Yuri. She was sitting on the kitchen floor, annoyed. She had bands of metal bent around her ankles. Tony bent over to look at it—were those _spoons_? Yuri looked very tempted to kick him in the face.

Then Tony stood up straight. Wanda was sitting on the countertop, at the perfect height to receive his incredulous stare. “You gave me no handcuffs. I made my own,” Wanda said defensively. At Tony’s longer look, she said, “What? She tried to run! I left her hands free. I’ve been kind.”

On the ground, Yuri swelled like a bullfrog, angry at the humiliation of being hobbled. She opened her mouth, and Tony knew they were about to get a caustic earful. Yuri was really good at those. Tony wasn’t sure how she and Peter were friends.

But the second Stacy entered the unit, Yuri lost all wind in her sails. She settled back down, eyes wide. After a beat, she pulled her knees up to her chest self-consciously, hands flat against the floor.

On his end, George seemed stunned too. But he recovered, continuing into the kitchen. After a beat, he crouched down next to her. She fidgeted, avoiding his gaze, but she really should have looked at him. Stacy looked openly sympathetic and concerned for his captain. It might have made her feel better to see their allyship written so clearly in George Stacy’s face.

He reached out to her, then seemed to second guess it when her sudden glance turned molten and dangerous. He stayed back, leaning on his heels. “You seem like you’ve had a rough week?” He ended it in a question. There was no real question. Yuri looked like she’d been through hell.

“You have no idea,” she replied, and Stacy winced, hearing her hoarse voice. “I tampered with evidence. I lost three of my men. Or maybe two. I’ve been stalked and followed. I was almost murdered, and I killed two people in the attempt. I put a civilian in a lot of fucking danger—oh, and I almost murdered a goddamn priest.”

It was quiet for a long time.

Stacy, like the rest of them, seemed speechless. Then, daringly, he said, “That sounds like the punch line of a joke,” he commented.

There was a heavy pause. Tony held his breath.

But the dark humor seemed to hit the right spot for Yuri, because she laughed. It sounded almost hysterical. It was thick and a little too wet.

Nodding to himself, Stacy sat down on the floor properly, grasping her shoulder comfortingly just once. She swayed towards him, like she couldn’t help it. “It’ll be okay, Yuri,” he said. “Somehow, some way. We’ll figure something out, I promise.”

Yuri bowed her head, letting out a heavy breath. Tension ever so slowly left her knotted shoulders. All at once, feeling as if he was intruding on something very private, Tony got out of the kitchen. After a beat, Wanda followed his lead, leaving the two cops to talk quietly amongst themselves.

For want of anything to do, Tony found himself wandering towards Barnes. Jessica had finished stitching up the wound and was cleaning up the space of blood. Tony reached out and fiddled with the slug that should have killed him. Barnes watched him under heavy lidded eyes but said nothing, likely not wanting to ruin the little bit of peace they had between them.

Tony struggled for a moment, buried in his own head, and it was only when Barnes started putting back on his shirt that Tony was struck with what he should be saying.

“I know you’re Avengers-adjacent at the moment, but hear me out. You pull this shit again, and it will not slide.”

Not exactly the nicest thing to say to the man who saved your life. Barnes paused, then pulled his shirt all the way back down. “What do you mean?” he said cautiously, voice already hard.

Exasperated, Tony gestured down at his suit. “I’m wearing a suit of freaking _armor_ , you dingus. I don’t _need_ to be protected.”

Barnes stared at him for a long moment, so long that Tony was sure he was about to point out that Tony was definitely not wearing the armor at the time. Instead, he cast his gaze down and to the left. “…Steve likes you,” he said instead, voice subdued.

“Steve likes you more, Mr. End of The Line,” Tony retorted. Barnes looked up at that, surprised. “I might make you feel like trash sometimes, but you’re not expendable. You never have been.”

Barnes’ eyes were wide and very blue. When he looked at Tony like that, it made Tony feel like he’d been bullying a child instead of the 90 something year old man that he was. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Tony abruptly pivoted, noping straight the hell out of this conversation.

He didn’t get far. Barnes caught his gauntlet, stopping him in his tracks. His eyebrows needled together. “You… you ever-” Barnes hesitated.

“Spit it out, Barnes,” Tony said impatiently.

So Barnes did. He waved at the walls of the unit. “You ever get the feeling that all this is just one big distraction?”

A little put out that _this_ was the direction that Barnes took Tony’s genuine heart-to-heart, Tony didn’t quite grasp what he meant. “What do you mean?”

Tony didn’t hear what he said because, above them, the ceiling suddenly blew apart.

-

“Hey, do you take constructive criticism?”

Peter might as well have asked a bear to dance. More and more of the fighters were slowly shuffling out of the stairway, hands up. Resentment was thick in the air, and more than one was eyeing an injured Brito with interest—not for his bounty but for his weakness. Peter needed to turn the tides of this before something worse happened.

“Why not?” Brito drawled, an arm crossing protectively over his stomach. Peter stepped away from the line of fire a bit, his hands still up. Eyes amused, Brito allowed him to approach.

When Peter got close enough, he stopped. Very quietly, he said, “These people need hope and guidance, not more threats.” And Brito needed a hospital, not another beatdown.

Brito laughed. He didn’t bother to lower his voice. “In case you haven’t noticed yet, Petrelli, I am a conman. A criminal. A killer. I don’t do inspirational shit.”

“Are you, though?” Peter challenged. He thought of all of the times Brito had kept him alive and covered his ass. He thought about Silk, and he thought about Johnny. He thought about the package Brito gave him for Matt, and how pleased Matt had been to receive it. “Because I think you’re more than that. And I think you know that too.”

Brito stared at him for a long moment. He opened his mouth, his face twisting into something cruel. Then he hesitated. Then, sighing, Brito rolled his eyes, holstering his gun. “Whatever,” he said. Peter relaxed a fraction. But then Brito kept talking. “I knew you would figure it out. You broke my damn voice inducer during our tussle over Silk.”

Uh. What? “What?”

Brito fiddled with something at his throat, and suddenly that voice Peter had been chasing around Brito was front and center—and it was not a man’s voice. “Don’t be coy, Peter,” that familiar voice said. “It doesn’t suit you. Brito reached behind his head, pulling off a sheer material from his face. All at once, Brito’s features were replaced with equally familiar—but ultimately jarring—features of a very good ally.

Peter gaped at her. Later, he’d be relieved that his current mask concealed more than his usual did, but he was sure he looked like an idiot. He’d expected Brito to admit he was wearing a _wire_ , not for Brito to out himself out as _Natasha Romanov_.

“Right. The cat’s out of that bag,” Natasha muttered under her breath. She cleared her throat, resting in an easy stance. “I’m with the Avengers. I’ve been undercover with this operation on and off for the last couple of months, trying to figure out how to get you all out. In case you can’t tell, I’m a little injured right now, and I don’t want to drag this out any longer.” She stepped back, ushering them into the garage with a wave of her arm. “So will you please get in the goddamn big rigs around the corner and make my life easier for once?”

When no one responded, Ralph cleared his voice. “Well, you heard the lady. Let’s go!”

Once the shock faded off, exuberance and joy surged through the group. The promise of outside help—and outside help as prominent as the Avengers—energized them all. Peter’s group pushed, ran, and even skipped to the idling big rigs around the corner, climbing up and into the attached containers with zero complaints. Once, these spaces would have carted them from prison to prison. Now, they were going to take them to freedom. 

Natasha called out instructions behind them. “SHIELD is responding to this event, as it exceeds the threshold of a minimum casual event.” She looked at Peter and said, in an undertone, “Don’t ask.” Raising her voice again, she said, “I will be taking you to a specified extraction location, which will be coordinated and hosted by SHIELD. Yes, the feds. Deal with it graciously! It’s a small price to get away from the Juggernaut.”

Peter stuck by Natasha, and Roy and Ralph stuck by him. So when Natasha stumbled, almost fainting, she had an audience of three.

Ralph and Peter caught her before she could hit the floor. Pained, she asked, “Can one of you boys drive a big rig?”

Roy immediately raised his hand. “Ooh! Me. I’m a Lyft driver.” Roy was a man of many talents, it seemed.

Natasha shot him a dubious glance. “You sure? This isn’t your mom’s sedan, you know.” But Roy was already hopping up and inside the cab of the closest one, scrutinizing what he had to work with. She shook her head. “Ugh, whatever. This mission has been a shitshow from day one. Nothing’s worked the way it was supposed to.” She looked at Peter. “But Matt’s capture was fortunate. With the package you gave him, he’s sure to focus most of his attention on getting the demis released and out of the building as quickly as possible. That’s half the battle right there.”

“But he’s not going to be able to do much against the Juggernaut,” Ralph commented, having only an idea who Matt was.

But he wasn’t wrong. There were very few people who could do anything against the Juggernaut. “Leave him to me,” Peter said.

Ralph shot him a flat, disbelieving look. “You’re joking.”

“This is such a mess,” Natasha muttered. She pushed away from them both, taking a few wavering steps forward.

“You’re not doing well, ma’am,” Ralph commented.

Natasha flapped a disinterested hand in his direction. “Yeah, thanks for the update, doc.”

“What about the exits?” Peter asked.

“I recruited a one-woman demolition crew. You might know her.”

With great timing, Silk suddenly dropped on top of the closest big rig, spooking Roy. He watched with open mouthed awe as she slipped off the edge, landing lightly on her toes.

Cindy still looked like hell, covered up by more bandages than actual spandex, but she was upright and flushed with success. “The south and south west entrances are good to go. I put all the keys under the windshield wipers of their respective vehicles—yes, I know. Great idea. All mine, not yours. If that does open up an escape route for the bad guys, we’ll know where they came and what they were driving. Win, win, win, I say.”

“Evacuation _is_ our highest priority,” Natasha said approvingly.

Cindy—contrary, always arguing, never serious Cindy—pinked at this positive feedback. She spun a little, too widely even, and brushed up close enough to Peter for it to count. Their spidey senses reacted to one another, and she snapped her gaze to him, recognizing it.

It only took another second for her to recognize _him_ specifically. Her eyebrows immediately slammed downward. “You son of a bitch,” she swore, advancing on him. Ralph jumped back, alarmed. “After everything you said about _sharing the load_ -”

Peter hastily backed up, hands raised. “Technically? I did ask for your help with the Benefactor. Just saying.”

“Rip him a new one later, Silk,” Natasha ordered. “We have to go.”

Sparing him one last heated glare, Cindy walked to the other big rig. Then she promptly turned around and rushed back at him, squeezing him hard around the middle. “I hate you.”

“I know,” he said, hugging her back. She shoved him lightly, then raced back to the big rig. She hopped into the driver’s side with ease.

“Santos, you should go with her,” Natasha suggested. With great reluctance, Ralph stepped away from Peter, following Silk to her assignment.

Peter followed Natasha, which was good as she needed help up to the passenger side of Roy’s big rig. She was shaking. Whatever injuries she had sustained, they were bad. She needed to go to the hospital. “I was supposed to be able to leave and come back to pick up more people. But that’s clearly not going to happen,” she said bitterly. “And while she’s energetic now, Silk hasn’t recovered from her battle with the Ox. She needs medical aid too.” Natasha grabbed Peter’s wrist, squeezing it lightly over his web shooters. “But I promise you this—we _will_ bring you back up. You won’t be alone with this like you were with the Green Goblin.” She squeezed his wrist a little harder. “All I ask of you is to try and get more people out of here. Rinse and repeat what you did here, if you can. If not, hold on and do your very best to keep this building was crumbling to the ground.”

“I’ll do my very best,” he promised.

Despite this, Natasha still didn’t look happy. If anything, she looked more upset. Peter remembered, suddenly, Brito’s violent reaction to the sight of Peter’s inactivated web shooters. She’d been mourning him then, he realized.

Her frown turned into a faint, rueful smile. “Me nailing Kingpin 2.0 was supposed to be a gift for you. A wedding gift. That is, if you ever marry that idiot you call a boyfriend.” She shook her head. “I dislike having you clean up after me. But I’ll get over it.” She nodded at him once. “Good luck. Glad you’re not dead.”

She closed the passenger side door. The big rig started up, the engine roaring loudly. Peter stepped back as Roy stepped on the gas, moving the big vehicle through the garage at a pace that was probably a tad too fast. The second big rig started up and creeped after Roy’s at a slower pace. Peter saw why when it stopped, and Ralph rolled down the window to talk to him.

“Wait Petrelli!” Ralph called out. Peter waited. “If the Black Widow thinks this Juggernaut guy’s a danger, you should probably sit this one out. You can jump on board with us and get the hell out of here.”

Peter shook his head. “Sorry, Ralph,” he said, genuinely apologetic. Ralph had tried so hard this entire time to steer Peter onto a safer path. It wasn’t his fault that Peter’s true north was always going to be danger.

“Come on, kid,” Ralph begged. When Peter didn’t budge, he turned to Cindy. “Miss, please, talk to him. You’re the real deal. A real superhero. Tell him he shouldn’t do this.”

Cindy paused at this description. Then she shook her head. “No. He's a grown adult. Besides, I've learned my lesson.”

Ralph deflated. “And what's that?” he asked morosely.

“Never, ever tell Spider-Man what to do,” she said. She put her foot on the gas, and the vehicle started moving again.

“I see,” Ralph said, disappointed, his response almost swallowed up by the engine. Then what she said registered. He reared up. “Spider-WHAT?!”

Peter waved as the big rig passed him by.

Then he put his back to them, focusing on his objective. He needed to get back up to the ninth floor.

-

Wade woke up in a haze, his body split between two rooms. Thankfully, this wasn’t the kind of split that involved blood, organs, and squelching—gross.

He’d successfully distracted Cain for a while before the mutant realized Wade technically didn’t have a bounty. Although Wade was part of the unwashed masses worth only $1,000 to Fisk, Wade couldn’t actually die—ergo, no bounty.

When the Juggernaut realized that little tidbit of information, he yeeted Wade headfirst into a wall, which was how Wade woke up in his current predicament: ass in one room, head and torso in another.

But, hey, silver lining! His missing gear was in the room his head was in, so who was laughing now?

Somebody, probably. Somewhere. Not Wade at this very moment. Anyhoo-

Wade wiggled his way into the room like a thicc Winnie the Pooh after indulging in too much of that sweet stuff. Equipping himself with all of his goodies—ah, it was good to be back—Wade skipped out, ready to engage the Juggernaut again.

Except, someone else was already fighting Jugs. And Wade knew that voice. Loved that voice. _Needed_ that voice.

And that voice had no business going up against a force of nature like the Juggernaut.

Panicking, Wade sprinted towards the source of the shaking floors, trying to prevent what was inevitable.

He found them in what must have been a waiting area. Faintly circular, the place was bare and covered on one side with ceiling to floor windows. Windows that were already partially broken from the current fight.

“-squash you like a _bug_!” the Juggernaut roared, predictably.

Peter’s response was breathless. “Oh boy, if I had a nickel-”

Wade skidded around the corner in time to see the Juggernaut snapped Peter against a wall like a wet towel in the hand of a jock in a locker room.

Peter got up, though. “Let’s try that again,” he said, unsteady. When Cain charged him, Peter sprang over him, using his metal helmet as a launch pad. The Juggernaut stumbled under the force of it, spinning around again to face his acrobatic enemy.

Peter was doing nothing to hide the fact that he was Spider-Man—and it was glorious. He dodged at the last minute, ran up walls, and fired webs like there was no tomorrow. The result was an increasingly dizzy Juggernaut trying to track his movement around a circular room.

Then Peter suddenly came to an abrupt stop, panting and holding his ribs. Cackling, Cain charged him, but it was a ruse—on Peter’s end. Surprisingly, he charged Cain right back, rapid fire shooting his webs at his crotch. He was cutting them off as soon as they flew, giving the Juggernaut nothing to grab.

Then Peter dropped to his back, sliding between Cain’s legs and firing off one more line in the process.

This one, he attached to the wad of web on the Juggernaut’s crouch. This one, he did not cut.

Once he passed Cain’s legs, Peter got up to his feet and immediately yanked the line in his hand.

The Juggernaut slammed face first into the floor hard enough to leave a three-foot dent.

But Peter wasn’t done. Like the spider he was, he climbed up the big guy’s back as he stood up, adding insult to injury by shooting him with webs in the little face holes that made up his mask.

The Juggernaut roared in anger and started to throw himself around the room, trying to dislodge and hurt Peter. But Peter rode his shoulders like a cowboy, two lines of web on the big guy’s shoulders and one hard foot pressed against the back of his head.

The Juggernaut was blinded. Dazed. Dizzy. Humiliated. And very, very _pissed_.

It didn’t take long for Wade to see what Peter was planning. In his blind thrashing, the big guy was charging this way and that—and that way was a wall of flooring to ceiling to windows. Cleverly steering his not-so-noble steed, Peter leap backwards at the last minute as the big guy charged through the windows, falling to the world below.

It was like something out of a goddamn cartoon. One minute, Cain was attacking. Then next, he was falling into the void. And crashing, apparently, with some force through a metal overhang and a cement truck.

Panting, Peter stood at the edge of the broken windows, his silhouette striking in the early evening light. After a beat, he looked over the edge, almost cringing at the damage.

Well. That wouldn’t do. “That was fucking _amazing_ ,” Wade enthused.

And Peter jumped a foot, clearly not expecting an audience. He pivoted, facing Wade with hunched shoulders. Was he feeling guilty? Why?

“Nine. Stories,” Wade said with awe. Heart eyes, mother fucker.

“He’s the Juggernaut. He’ll be fine,” Peter said defensively. Then he looked over the edge again. “Right?”

“ _Nine stories_ ,” Wade said dreamily. He wanted to swoon.

This was quite possibly the best day of his life. 


	17. Chapter 17

Thirty or so former demis were pinned in a room on the 9th floor while other predatory survivors tried to rack up more money in bounties in the Juggernaut’s absence. Most of the barricades had been knocked down, and the former demis were struggling to get them back up. The Human Torch was no longer the deterrent he was just an hour ago, and even Daredevil was starting to slip, running ragged by the effort of continuously fighting.

It would have been only a matter of time before they were overrun. Fortunately, the bounty loving survivors weren’t expecting the demis to have back up.

Peter and Wade tore through the invading force from behind. By the time the group had time to shift their strategy, most of them were pinned to the wall or to the floor by webbing, and it was only the matter of a few minutes before the last of them was completely neutralized.

Rinse and repeat, Natasha had said. Peter walked up to the closest demi barricade and knocked like he was a neighbor. At the confirmation of a person on the other side, he quickly started laying out their exit plan.

He wasn’t believed—not immediately, anyway. Johnny ended up scaling the barricade and confronting him, all spit and vinegar.

“And why the hell should we trust you?” Johnny demanded. “You’re cozy with the Benefactor. With the techs. With that recruiter. For all we know, this is another trick for the Kill Kage and _its goddamn incessant dubstep_!” The last, he roared at the ceiling. There was no point. The camera feeds weren’t picking up audio.

“Johnny, come on.” Peter grabbed the chin of his mask and lifted it. “ _It’s me._ ”

Johnny stared at him blankly before throwing up his hands. “Who’s me? I don’t know you!”

Oh, right. Peter’s bare face—or even Peter’s name—meant nothing to Johnny, and the attempt to use it had backfired. Johnny was angrier than before, emitting heat and light like a compressed star. Hands up, Peter backed away, trying to avoid an advancing Johnny.

Then Wade dropped an arm around Peter’s shoulders from behind. “Are we going yet, honey? You and I have a very special date with my bathtub, and I _refuse_ to cancel it just to indulge your pathological need to rile Hotshot up.” He poked Peter’s cheek. He was one to talk about the need to rile people up. Wade had entire journals noting the sore points and buttons of most everyone he worked with, and he tested this knowledge often.

Despite Peter’s annoyance, this interaction did something that none of Peter’s previous attempts were successful at. It made Johnny stop and, more importantly, it made Johnny understand.

“ _Spider-Man?_ ” he demanded, flushing. His face twisted up. “You’re supposed to be dead, you goddamn asshole-”

“I get that a lot,” Peter said, shrugging off Wade’s arm.

The barricade suddenly moved, hauled away by three former demis. Matt came out then, rolling his shoulders. He ignored Johnny. “You were successful, then?”

“Got at least forty people out,” Peter said grimly. “Also, Brito was Natasha the whole time.”

“That tracks.”

“I need to get your people out too,” Peter said, approaching him cautiously.

“Yes, but not me.” Matt looked up at the ceiling. “I’m not leaving this without confronting Fisk. I need to know where that C4 went, and what his endgame is.”

“And I’m going with him,” Johnny butted in, expression mulish.

Peter opened his mouth, wanting to talk them out of it. He closed it without saying anything. Matt was stubborn, and Johnny was even more so. “I want to go with you too,” he said instead. This announcement was met with something close to relief in Johnny’s face. He braced his weight on his knees, sighing deeply. Matt even smiled crookedly, like he expected this the whole time.

Wade was the only one not on board with this. “Wow, wow, wait a second. You can’t be up here and in the garage at the same time, buddy.” He waved a frantic hand at the slowly gathering demis. “These people _need_ someone to guide them down and show them the way out!” It was clear as day. Wade had been hoping that Peter would escape this early by the simple necessity of escorting others to freedom.

“We can get ourselves out,” said one of the demis. At Peter’s look, she shrugged one shoulder. “We’ve kept ourselves alive so far, haven’t we?”

“Yeah,” said another one, rubbing the back of his neck. “I used to work for Fisk too. If you’ve already gone through this route once, I can almost guarantee that the path down will be clear for us. The rest of Fisk’s assets and forces are focused on the 11th and 12th floors.”

“Why paint themselves into a corner?” Peter asked. Especially since this operation up until this point had prioritized mobility.

“The Benefactor has choppers,” another demi said, running a hand through her short hair. “At least three of them. I was working on them at another site. And I heard from another gal that the Benefactor was waiting on something, watching the outside. Apparently, the NYPD is imploding, and he’s waiting until it hits a certain level of chaos before he acts.” She looked at the demi closest to her. “I have no idea how he thinks losing the NYPD is beneficial, but we should have never asked questions.” Her friend nodded vigorously.

These people were like Mark, just cashing in a paycheck. Mark’d had the benefit of being used by Natasha, and she didn’t think twice about ushering him into the big rigs with everyone else. These demis had similar luck. Matt didn’t pick and choose which people to save, and that mercy was being paid back tenfold through some valuable information.

“Just tell us where to go,” said the first demi grimly. “I’ll lead the way. But you four? Please. Go nail Fisk to the goddamn wall.”

-

Yuri woke up cold, in pain, and inhaling dust. Coughing, she sat up, blinking wetly into the thick air.

She saw the state of the unit before she heard a damn thing, and it was a mess. The unit above had crashed down on them, exposing them to the air of the night. The Sokovian girl was face down, unconscious and pinned by the upstairs neighbor’s dresser. Jessica was missing and the chief had a head wound. He was being hauled to his feet by a scraped up Winter Soldier. Iron Man was coated in so much dust, he looked like a pastel version of himself.

Sound came to her all at once, and it was devastating.

She heard first, weirdly enough, Captain America’s voice, thin and distant through someone’s phone or radio. She didn’t understand all of it, only the words ‘thrown’, ‘building’, and ‘Juggernaut’.

“Kind of busy here, Cap!” Stark shouted back at him, and, in a second, Yuri saw why.

A helicopter was parallel to their unit, and someone in the back was aiming a machine gun into their gaping wide hidey hole.

They opened fire. Everyone but Stark jumped to hide, and the bullets ripped apart everything they touched. Iron Man stayed solidly in the center, helmet up, a wide target for them to shoot at.

“What about it, Chief!” Stark yelled. A bullet hit his mask hard enough to rock him back on his heels. “Do we have permission to defend ourselves or what?”

The door busted open behind him. Stark turned slowly, too slowly, as more armed individuals filed in the damaged apartment. George Stacy responded by standing up and shooting the first one that entered the unit. The rest jumped back in the hallway, lunging for cover.

“You have my reluctant approval,” Stacy said thickly, voice thick with remorse.

Although the helicopter had no markings and the others had blank vests, the first person to come in the room was definitely an NYPD officer.

“Fuck,” Tony said with feeling. He fired off a quick repulsor blast to the helicopter’s tail, causing to destabilize and loose altitude. He then pivoted and blasted air at the next person who peeked around the corner of the door. “I'll try for you, old man, but these gauntlets weren't built for cuddles.”

Yuri’s gaze jerked away from him when Barnes suddenly advanced on her. Bending quickly, he reached for and snapped the metal wrapped around her ankles without once touching her skin. In the same move, he offered her back her side piece.

“You sure you have permission to do this?” she asked, checking the gun obsessively. It was loaded.

“Feel free to throw me under the bus,” he said, already walking away. “Might cheer Tony up.”

The Sokovian girl—Wanda, they’d said—was awake now. She threw a fistful of the red light at the helicopter and was carefully forcing it to the ground, much to the shock of the people inside. And, while Tony and Stacy covered him, Barnes advanced on the door like a one-man army. She’d always been told to never show up to a gun fight with anything less than another gun. Barnes, it seemed, didn’t need any such equalizer.

A couple of pieces of ceiling fell where she had been lying just a moment before, cracking the tile. She backed up, not trusting the structure of this apartment. Then, spying a fallen wall, she slipped into the next unit. It was almost unscathed, she noticed, save big gaps in the ceiling and the wall she’d just come through.

Not safe enough, it seemed. She froze when a silent rope came down the hole in the ceiling. She pressed against the wall, holding her breath when three men came down in all black and covered from head to toe. Their backs were to her, and they landed softly, silently, and with skill that suggested experience.

“Find Watanabe,” the middle one said, advancing towards the fallen wall. His voice was familiar. He reeked of smoke. “Kill her. The others are optional.” There was a smile in his voice suddenly. “$20,000 a pop, boss said.”

The other two chuckled.

Yuri didn’t take a chance. 

She shot the man on the left and the man on the right in the back of the head in quick succession. Then her gun jammed. Unscathed, the man in the middle whipped around sharply, his mask obscuring his face. He immediately fired his rifle at her.

She didn’t dodge. It hit her arm twice and her side once, but that didn’t stop her charge. They hit the ground, grappling harshly. They rolled around three times, each one trying to get the advantage over the other. Vicious and unkind, they kicked, punched, and struck at each other as they went. Yuri successfully ripped his rifle from his hand, and he’d knocked her side piece across the room. He dug his fingers into her bullet wounds, and she punched him in the throat.

They seemed evenly matched, at first, but Yuri’s experience soon proved to outstrip his own—and rage was a powerful motivator.

She’d just about subdued him when she finally knocked his helmet off his face.

It was the worst possible thing she could have done, even if she half-expected the man behind the mask.

Henderson glared up at her heatedly. She froze. “The Benefactor says hello,” he spat, then punched her in the side of the head.

She flew off of him, hitting the wall hard. She heard his knife before she saw it, and she raised her hand to defend herself. It went through her palm instead of her chest.

And Yuri… almost didn’t feel it. She almost didn’t feel anything at all.

All she could think of was her people. The men and women she’d loved to work with. Her precinct. The Golden Trio it had come with. The inside jokes she didn’t understand, and the ones she did. She felt raw, inside and out.

Stanley and Ramirez had died for… what, exactly? Doing their jobs? Listening to her? Protecting the public? Why? Why them? They’d been Henderson’s friends far longer than they were ever her men.

And he’d killed them anyway.

They didn’t deserve that.

And Henderson didn’t deserve to live.

Yuri lunged at Henderson, and her vision went completely white.

The next thing she was aware of was straddling Henderson’s chest. Henderson was unconscious. She’d successfully fended him off. But that didn’t stop her from punching him again and again. And again. And again.

The thuds must have caught someone’s attention because Yuri was suddenly grabbed, wrapped in a full bear hug by someone much stronger than her. She struggled—not to free herself, but to continue battering Henderson until he was as dead as the men he helped kill. Henderson’s face was battered, covered with both his and her blood, but he breathed still, and that was _so fucking not acceptable_.

Yuri hit and twisted and kicked the person restraining her, but they didn’t budge. It was only when she twisted wildly, trying to find something soft and vulnerable to tear at did she realize her captor wasn’t one of Henderson’s people, but rather a steely eyed Jessica watching her with an all too knowing expression.

“Is this revenge or is this justice?” Jessica demanded harshly, her faces inches from Yuri. When Yuri kept resisting, the woman shook her once. “Is this _revenge_? Or is this _justice_?”

What did it matter? Vengeance and justice were similar things, weren’t they? Henderson needed to die to die, plain and simple. There was only one justice in the world for what had been done to Ramirez and Stanley, and it was for Henderson to leave this world in as much pain as they had. Being a judge, jury, and an executioner had a fitting place in this world, and it was right here in this apartment.

Yuri loosened suddenly. And yet… She would have killed that priest out of vengeance in that very moment. And she would have called it justice. And she would have been wrong on both counts. If she killed Henderson now, especially now, vulnerable and unconscious, would it be anything but a cold-blooded murder?

“You don’t know what he did,” Yuri spat. But she herself wasn’t sure either. What was his role in all of this? How did he fall so far? What few leads they had on the person who killed Ramirez and Stanley did not match Henderson at all. But he was working with the man who undoubtedly arranged for their deaths. He was just as culpable, even if he hadn’t been directly involved.

Right?

“I don’t know what he did,” Jessica agreed. “You’re right. But I don’t think his victims are going to be brought back by any of this either.”

Henderson hadn’t just killed people, though. He’d lied and he’d betrayed them all. He allied with the Benefactor, then turned a weapon on his fellow cops. He’d switched out his borrowed Spidey suit and let some John Doe die brutally in his place. He’d exposed and tried to kill her. It seemed like, no matter where she looked, there was a body count attached to his choices.

Except…

There might be one last living victim of his lies.

Alarmed, Yuri turned to Jessica, gripping her arms. “Peter,” she blurted out. Jessica’s expression turned wary. “I sent Peter undercover. I sent Peter undercover with _Henderson’s_ cover. His fake identity. His papers. His backstory. The second Peter entered the operation, they would have known he was a snitch. _You have to find Peter._ ”

Jessica looked grimly justified and angry. This, Yuri remembered, was the woman who tried to retrieve Peter’s body from day one. But she didn’t rip Yuri a new one, and nor did she ask a million questions. She even released her from her grip.

All she said in return was, “Where do I start?”

It was the one question Yuri could not answer. She couldn’t even remember the coded message he’d tried to pass along. Something about island parties and volleyballs? Was the operations being held outside of Manhattan? Yuri groaned, cradling her head. She felt all of her wounds and injuries all at once, and she despaired. How was she supposed to find and help Peter now?

She opened her eyes to the sight of George Stacy crouching by her, wrapping up her bleeding hand in soft gauze. Barnes was dragging Henderson into the next unit, and Jessica was explaining everything to both the chief and Iron Man.

“This might be tied to what’s happening across town,” said Stark. Then Iron Man said something that changed Yuri’s entire perspective. “Would it help if I told you that Steve said that the Juggernaut had webbing all over him? It’s just me, but that might be a great place to start if we want to find Spider-Man.”

For the first time in days, Yuri felt a sliver of hope.

-

Now that the Juggernaut was down, it was a race to the top to. It was a nightmare. They had to jump from fight to fight all the way up to the roof. Just as one person went down, another three rose in his place. Fisk’s people were rabid and merciless in their defense of him. Peter wondered how much of that was loyalty and how much of it was fear.

And that was just the 10th floor. Everything took a turn for the worst on the next flight up.

They had to get past a literal firing line, which Wade did without hesitation, even if the experience riddled him with holes. Despite not wanting Peter here, Wade thoroughly enjoyed the challenges that were being thrown at him and wasn’t afraid to let everyone know.

Then they ran into Wendy Conrad. But instead of stopping to fight, she flipped them off, running to the open elevator shaft. Slinging a harness around her, she jumped into the void. “Sucks to suck, asshole,” Wendy yelled, tapping on her bracelet.

Next to a workbench, a box of the bomb collars started lighting up, beeping rapidly. Peter’s spidey sense _screamed_.

Then Johnny shoved past him, throwing himself over the box. Gripping it with both hands, Johnny shot off towards the window, breaking it instantly. Off he flew, further and further away in the sky like a shooting star.

Then the bombs went off. The whole building shook, and the sky lit up in a blaze of red. Johnny was gone.

They were surrounded quickly by Fisk’s men. Matt went down under a punch, staggering. Peter was tackled, shoved up against the side of the window, his mask cracking under the strain of being slammed against concrete. Stunned, Peter didn’t respond. Johnny was gone.

Below them, the street was blocked off from pedestrian access. Peter’s stunt with the Juggernaut had worked. This building had been noticed. Red and blue lights flashed from squad cars, and barricades were set up between them and the building. SHIELD vans were there too, as Natasha promised. Off in the distance, Hope, Ellie, Yukio, and Cable were getting briefed by none other than Maria Hill. Peter had his backup.

But Johnny was _gone_.

Then the weight was ripped off his back. Peter spun with the force of it, watching Wade use a man as a meat shield while raining bullets on their enemies’ knees. When the rest of them fell, screaming, Wade grabbed the back of the head of Peter’s attacker, slamming it with full force on the floor. Breathing heavily, he marched back over to Peter, picked up Peter’s wrist, and depressed the trigger on his webshooter, pinning their enemies to the floor. Grumbling for a moment, he depressed it again, using the adhesive as a crude bandage for the people who’d enabled Johnny’s death.

God, _Johnny_. Released, Peter lifted up his hands, covering his face. How was he supposed to face Sue? Ben? Reed? How was he supposed to meet Franklin’s eyes one day and explain how he failed to save his uncle?

As if sensing Peter’s mental anguish, Wade tugged him forward with two fingers under Peter’s mask. He hugged him then, tight enough to chase the empty feeling away.

But Peter didn’t have the chance to mourn.

“Helicopter approaching.” Matt said grimly. A moment later, Peter could hear it too. “Fisk is trying to get away.”

That couldn’t happen.

There was _no way_ Peter would allow it.

-

Jessica needed to get to Peter.

The fact that others—other Avengers, other Defenders, other superheroes—were being mobilized to support him didn’t matter. The fact that Clint had called ahead, revealing Natasha was in the hospital, and that she could confirm Peter’s whereabouts? That barely registered. Jessica was looking for Peter for what seemed like an eternity now, swinging endlessly between grim acceptance of his death and fragile hope for his survival.

The fact that his survival was dependent on the whims of the Benefactor grated at her. She wanted—no, needed—to see him. To see for herself that he was still alive and kicking.

But she couldn’t respond to Peter’s position. Not with the standout in its current state. And beyond them being attacked by a small force of enemy combatants, nothing was happening to end this situation.

Well, nothing they themselves were aware of. That is, until Jefferson Davis called his superior.

Hesitantly, the cop reported that the situation outside had changed in the last ten minutes, the same ten minutes they’d been invaded by corrupt cops and hired goons. When George Stacy asked for details, Davis paused.

“Maybe you should just come on outside and look,” he said. 

Giving the outside one last chance, Jessica joined them when they did just that. Bucky hung back with Yuri, and Wanda, though still wobbly, followed them two feet behind. Jessica too followed at a distance, expecting more crooked cops. Fearless, Stacy and Stark led the way.

When she stepped, though, the air was immediately lighter. Ambulances crowded the street at both sides. EMTs were running back and forth freely, attending to the wounded and the dead. In the center of the street was a pile of unconscious men and women, all handcuffed or zip tied together. Around them, a loose semi-circle of seven cops had formed. They were guarding their prisoners.

Jessica scanned the rooftops. They were clear.

“What is this?” George Stacy demanded, stepping off the stairs. His tone was not exactly friendly. “Davis?”

A very tall, broad shouldered black cop moved forward. “Sorry, chief, but while you were occupied, the situation out here… evolved.”

“Evolved how?” he barked. “My orders were clear.”

“Well-”

A spandex clad boy landed in front of him. “It’s not their fault!” he interrupted, almost shouting. The cops from the shootout were unsurprised at his entry, but Jessica, Stacy, and even Stark moved back, startled.

Jessica stared in surprise. She’d never seen this kid before, but she admired his suit. It was a clear homage to Spider-Man. She liked the colors more than the original. But who was this kid?

At least one of them seemed to know. While Wanda squinted at him, confused, Stark’s shoulders loosened up. He sighed, and the kid wilted a little at that sigh. Apparently, they knew each other. Thinking about it, she wasn’t surprised. The Avengers recruited occasionally and thus knew most of the super powered people in town. But the kid wasn’t an Avenger yet, and that was clear. Jessica recognized an unauthorized party when she saw one.

“I can explain myself,” Davis retorted, frowning down at the unknown vigilante. “You see, sir-”

“ _It’s like this_ ,” they said at the same time. They looked at each other. The little Spider-Man mimic mimed zipping his lips, and Davis started again.

“It’s like this. I noticed one of the new officers was twitchy and fidgeting. I tried to talk him, get him to calm down and relax. It was his first shootout, I thought.” Stacy nodded along. This was reasonable. Davis continued. “Then while doing that, I noticed he had a gang tattoo on his right arm. Very unusual for an officer. I tried to pretend I didn’t see it, but, unfortunately, he noticed that I noticed. He turned violent. When I tried to get my partner to back me up, well…” Davis looked away, expression heavy. “It turned out they were hired by the same person.”

“ _They were going to kill him_ ,” the kid burst out with feeling. “Officer Davis, I mean. Yes, I was kinda trespassing on an active crime scene—sorry, Iron Man.” Stark rolled his eyes. “But I wasn’t _doing_ anything. Not really? And not until I saw Officer Davis being menaced.” He looked up at Davis questioning, lens wide. After a beat, Davis nodded encouragingly, and the kid continued, “They were going back and forth on radio, trying to figure out what to do with my- with _the_ officer here. And I realized they’re all talking to each other. So after I subdued the first one, I basically pretended to be him, asking others for updates and using the same language they were using. Every time I heard my own voice after that, I just… went for it.”

“He even caught the ones with earpieces,” Davis said, unable to quite hide his delight with these proceedings.

The littler Spider-Man puffed up adorably. “I have very good hearing.”

“All of that for free, huh?” Jessica asked, unable to restrain the gloating in her voice. She was pretty sure it costed SI $10 million dollars every time Tony decided to mess with their satellites. With an exorbitant waste of money, Tony had been able to figure out what it took this kid only five minutes and a sharp ear.

The future was bright.

“I… see,” Stacy said, absorbing all of that. After a beat, he faced the kid fully, reaching out a hand. They shook on it. “Thank you for your services, young man. You saved many of us a lot of heart ache today.” With that, Stacy stepped past the kid, grasping his shoulder briefly before talking to the rest of his assembled officers.

Spider-Kid stood stock still for a whole minute, lens very, very wide. “Wow,” the kid said slowly, finally. “He’s so _cool_.”

“Oh,” Davis said, his voice odd. “So _he’s_ cool. But me, I’m the guy you tell to pull the stick out of their-”

“You were screaming!” the kid interrupted. He sounded both embarrassed and indignant at the same time. “And in my _ear_. Very rude. I _told_ you I was bringing you to a better vantage point…”

Davis put both hands on his hips. “And what you _didn’t_ tell me was that vantage point was six stories in the air, and that you were going to get us there by _swinging from a piece of string_!”

Jessica couldn’t believe she was here, listening to this bickering. But across from her, Tony’s expression gleamed with a sudden realization. He looked smug.

“Hey, kid. You should go home before your _parents_ start asking why you played hooky today,” he said mercilessly.

The kid’s shoulders hunched. His lenses narrowed into thin slits as he shot a look up at Tony. “Wow, narc.”

“Are you a _minor_?” Davis asked, sounding horrified.

The kid flinched. Then he tried standing a little taller, clearing out his throat. “No,” he said in a deeper register, his voice cracking. “Of course not. Excuse me, I must be off to… pay my taxes.”

“Wait a second!” Davis barked after him. The spider kid most certainly did not wait any seconds, let alone one, swinging off into the night. “It’s not even tax season!”

“Hey, Davis,” Tony said, still sounding way too pleased with himself. “Ever think about sponsoring a vigilante?”

“I already have a kid at home. I don’t need another one at work,” Davis said absently, still looking off into the sky.

Tony chuckled. “Oh boy. Trust me, in a while? This conversation is going to be super, super funny.” Tony paused, then clarified. “For me, anyway.” He turned, calling out to Stacy. “It’s been a pleasure, Chief! I owe you a drink. But, first, we have an incident to respond to across town.”

Oh, thank god. Jessica turned to him eagerly.

“I’m being briefed about that in five minutes,” Stacy said. “Good luck.”

Tony pivoted to Jessica, offering an arm. “Assuming you want the direct, nonspot flight?”

Beyond him, Wanda was being treated by an EMT.

“Not my favorite way to fly, but I’ll make it work,” Jessica said, looping her arm around his. She stepped on his boot, and off they went, speeding across the sky.

The incident with the Juggernaut (and, apparently, a botched undercover mission for Natasha) was across Manhattan, and visible even in darkness. Sirens and police lights flashed over the building in question, lighting up the night. Bystanders, the media, and other nosy parties clustered at barricades blocking off the streets. Enterprising looky-loos took to rooftops, watching the scene from above.

Tony dropped her a few blocks away from the lit-up building while he did an aerial sweep. Jessica jogged the rest of the way, scanning the sidewalks and streets. There was debris everywhere, large pieces of glass and concrete littering the ground. A SHIELD unit was carefully extracting an unconscious Juggernaut from the warped prison of a metal overhang and a cement truck that he’d fallen into. Several ambulances were parked around the corner, and EMTs were gingerly checking the vitals of people who had jumped from the building—or had been thrown. Judging by the number of black, zipped up body bags, Jessica thought that Juggernaut was probably the only survivor.

She kept jogging until she was at the foot of the building, looking up. It was a mess, glass and soot everywhere. There had been an explosion earlier. Weirdly, an enormous Pikachu was deflating between neighboring buildings. Wade’s friend Domino walked out from under it, blowing a bubble between her lips. Beyond her, the police cast a wide perimeter around it, but they were jumpy, snapping at each other and unwilling to make a call without a trusted leader at the helm. George Stacy would get little sleep tonight.

Jessica went for the double doors that made up the entrance of the building. But two SWAT officers moved into to stop her. She dropped into a defensive stance. “Back up,” Jessica snapped. “I’ve been approached by too many cops today trying to kill me, so keep your distance or I’ll-” She lost her train of thought when the first SWAT officer took off his helmet. “Robert?”

“Hi, Ms. Jones,” said Detective Robert Martine morosely, already wincing. Her mousy, nerdy, tired old grump of a liaison in the NYPD was the last person she expected wearing a SWAT uniform.

But then the second SWAT officer was taking off his helmet too, and she forgot about Robert completely. “ _Luke_?!” 

“Sorry for the lack of communication lately,” Robert said quickly. “I needed Luke’s assistance with a massive internal corruption case.”

So George Stacy had been aware of the corruption in his ranks after all. Well played. By him, anyway. 

Jessica continued to eye Luke judgmentally. “Did you now.”

“I happened to be familiar with a lot of the players.” When Jessica continued to stare at him, Luke said, defensively, “It was highly confidential.”

“I don’t think you can call something that when it makes the evening news.” The sound of a helicopter came in close. It was practically right on top of them. “And speaking of the devil-”

But Luke was frowning, squinting up at the sky. “Is that a news station you’re familiar with?”

Jessica turned and looked up. A black bird was making its way steadily through the gaps in the building, its target clear. It looked just like the model that lit them up in the apartment building.

“Getaway vehicle?” Robert guessed. He called it in on his shoulder radio.

But Jessica knew any response of theirs would be too late. “If he gets on that, the Benefactor is gone,” she predicted bitterly. Seeing a flash of red and gold zip by, she shouted, “Iron Man!”

Tony paused from where he was lifting a piece of concrete that was once the side of a building. He dropped it on the sidewalk with little fanfare. “What is it, Jess?” His stupid voice with his stupid speakers was loud enough to be heard across the street.

Jessica’s voice didn’t have that kind of range. She simply pointed at their new friend in the sky.

Once he saw it, Tony cocked his head. “Huh. Would you look at that? One helicopter diversion, coming up!” He fired up his thrusters, shooting off into the sky. He immediately cut it off from the building, forcing it to change trajectory.

“Well,” Robert said ineffectively. “That’s certainly… helpful.”

“ _Jess_ ,” Luke echoed, his voice weird. Unlike Robert, he was reacting to something else entirely—like Jessica’s notorious intolerance for anyone outside of a specific group giving her a nickname.

And Iron Man just received a free pass. “Jess, you want to tell me something?”

Let him squirm. “I do love a man in a suit.”

-

High up in the air, Tony rounded the helicopter. Heavy gun fire ricocheted off of his suit, and the pilot kept redirecting the helicopter’s trajectory away to avoid him. Tony was persistent, though, hanging on them like a bad smell.

Then, recognizing that ugly, snub nosed machine, Tony had a much better idea.

“Really, guys?” Tony lifted up his arm and accessed FRIDAY to hack the machine. It took roughly two seconds before all the instruments failed. “You went for the HAMMER model? See, that was your first mistake.” The blades on the copter stopped moving, and the machine fell like a rock.

But Tony got under the belly of the beast and caught it, double firing his thrusters to take them higher. “Your second mistake was cashing a paycheck from a maniac. But, gosh, you are _so_ lucky a superhero was around! Here, let me put you somewhere far, far away.” Tony followed through with his promise, and there was nothing any of the occupants could do about it.

He dropped them off two miles away on a wide roof. The pilot dropped out of the machine immediately, armed and ready to fire a not very nice machine gun at Tony Stark, aka literally the guy encased in one of the most bulletproof substances known to science.

He didn’t get the chance to pull the trigger before a rocky hand shot out, crushing the gun. A second later, the mangled bit of metal was ripped from the pilot’s hands and tossed over the ledge of the building.

No one expected the Spanish Inquisition. Or the Thing, as it turned out.

For the would-be shooter, the Thing wasn’t as forceful or exacting. Instead, he extended one long finger and prodded, shoving the pilot into a small bench on that roof.

The pilot seemed stunned. So was the copilot, still sitting in the helicopter. But the pilot, made of sterner stuff than they thought, reached shakily for the handgun still strapped to his leg.

But the Thing and Iron Man weren’t the only ones on the scene. “Are we standing down?” Captain America asked, jumping down from a water tower. “Or do we need to start this from the top?” Without saying a word, Steve made it very, very clear that he was drag this confrontation out as long—and as brutal—as necessary.

Stunned, the pilot didn’t respond. Ben leaned in. “The answer you’re looking for is _sir, yes, sir_.”

“…To the standing down or the starting from the top?” the copilot dared to ask. Blanching under Steve’s stony stare, he hurriedly unbuckled from his seat, sliding out and onto the roof. He never rose from his knees, hands up in universal surrender.

The pilot resisted doing the same. Then the Thing did something with his knuckles that sounded like thunder splitting open boulders. The pilot made a face and slowly copied his copilot, wincing slightly when Steve leaned over and roughly disarmed him.

“Cap,” Tony said, “Ben’s clearly got everything under control.” The Thing flapped his hand at Tony, already calling in the arrest. “Care to take a flight on Iron Man Airlines? Get a little closer to the action?”

“I wish you phrased things differently,” Steve said, but he stepped closer, even on Tony’s boot when he offered.

“You and everyone else,” Tony said, wrapping a sturdy arm around Steve’s waist. “Also, I’m pretty sure Barnes has a thing for me.”

He shot off the building. And with great timing too. Steve, an old hat at Iron Man Airlines, sucked in a breath at the wrong time after this announcement and started coughing. Rubbing at his face, he said, “You wish, you narcissist.”

“What? It’s true!” Tony did a barrel roll just for funsies. Steve’s grip hardened enough to put dents in Tony’s shoulder, and his face looked green. “He took a bullet for me and _everything_. It looks like I’m the one with intergenerational sex appeal, not you.”

They passed over a series of tall skyscrapers before Steve had his lunch under control again. “You’re in a weirdly good mood,” he said, clearly indulging Tony. They were rapidly approaching the crime scene.

“Good? No. I am in a _fantastic_ fucking mood,” Tony said gleefully. “Look who was invited to the roof party!” Steve followed his gaze, and Tony got the chance to watch up close and personal his friend’s tight, unhappy expression loosening into something approaching awe.

Because the person flipping between baddies was unmistakable. As was the man in red, glued to his side.

They’d finally found their friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man.

-

The situation on the roof was a mess. It was a full-on fire fight between Peter’s friends and Fisk’s mercenaries.

Peter had a new ally every time he turned around. Mr. Fantastic stretched his way to the top with Yukio and took care of a bruiser wielding chains as his weapon of choice. A grenade jerked out of the hands of a goon by a wincing, glowy eyed Scarlet Witch. A woman with knives flew over an external vent when the Wasp suddenly expanded to her regular size, throwing her enemy in the process. A rocket exploded, harmless, against the back of War Machine, and a heavy machine gun was knocked off the roof under the force of one blow from the Iron Fist. Falcon swooped, landing hard on top of a man who almost stabbed Captain America in the back.

They were slowly and steadily taking over the whole roof. With their paycheck on the line, Fisk’s people dug in their heels.

And behind them, Fisk watched, seemingly disinterested in the fact that he had nowhere to run. And, after a moment, Peter soon saw why.

Matt’s missing C4 was on display, but it wasn’t attached to a structure or a building or a bridge. No, it was attached to one person—Fisk himself.

Matt figured it out too. He must have heard the beeping. “You took it. _Why did you take it_?” he shouted, throwing his opponent away from him. A freshly dropped off Jessica picked up the slack, denting the shield the enemy had been using.

“Take a wild guess, Councilor,” Fisk said calmly. On his C4-laden vest hung a prominent remote. His hand moved over to it.

Peter hadn’t been fast enough to stop Wendy. But he was fast enough to stop Fisk. A moment later, Fisk was shaking out a hand wrapped in a wide wad of spider silk. He’d dropped the remote the second they hit. For the first time, Fisk showed a hint of that rage he was so well known for. “Oh, you _are_ a menace,” he hissed. He bent over to pick up the remote, but Peter snatched that away too.

“Says the guy wearing C4 as a fashion statement,” Wade said jubilantly. “Face it, Willy. You’ve lost.”

“Have I? Or do you just fail to understand the game?”

Suddenly, more people with guns were coming up from below. Wade immediately turned his back on Fisk, facing the new threat. There was barely any cover on the roof, and too many of them lacked the kind of armor to withstand a barrage of bullets.

“Wanda, Reed, Rhodey. Crowd control!” Tony shouted, circling above. Wanda nodded sharply as Reed clotheslined ten mercenaries at once. But they kept coming, and everyone had to divide their attention—one half on the force still on the roof, and the other half on their new enemies.

A whip cracked so hard against Peter’s face, the mask shattered. It fell in pieces. Peter’s cheeks felt numb from the force of it, but he kept fighting, eventually wrapping up his enemy in their own weapon, then hitting them with webbing too. Tasting blood in his mouth, Peter turned, trying to assess what was going on.

Vision was having a hard time with a mercenary with electricity powers. Wade was throwing himself, full bodied, down the stairs, knocking mercenaries down with him. Yukio and her girlfriend were skillfully tag teaming a hired goon with a blade mutation, but Reed and Sam were struggling to hold back what looked like the Ox’s younger brother.

A couple of feet away from Peter, Matt hurried up to Jessica, grabbing her arm. Seeing his face, Jessica was, at once, relieved, confused, and angry. They conferred quickly. Then, mouth twisting, she pulled something out of her jacket—a phone. She typed someone on the display and handed it over to Matt. He immediately stuck it to his ear. 

Beyond them all, Fisk nodded once to himself. He turned and walked to the edge of the roof. If he jumped, none of them were going to be fast enough.

Peter skidded after him, but his leg was protesting, clenching tight. Looking down, he saw a steaming whip mark had ripped its way across the top of most of the meat of his thigh. The second he looked at it, it burned. He wasn’t going to reach Fisk.

But Matt was closer. “I can’t stop you from killing yourself, Fisk,” Matt called out firmly. “None of us can.” Matt lifted Jessica’s phone, tipping his head down as if to regard it. When Fisk paused, turning back to Matt, Matt finally looked up. “But maybe she can.” He tossed the phone at Fisk.

Snorting with distain, Fisk caught the phone one-handed. But he took the bait, lifting the phone to his ear. “This is Wilson Fisk,” he said coldly, rising to his full height. “And just who the hell are-” He stopped midsentence. His eyes widened. Suddenly lost, he shuffled a bit before turning to the side.

“…hi honey,” he said very quietly.

“ _Honey_?” Wade repeated, balking. He’d made his way back up the stairs and back to Peter. He was straining against another mercenary—a blood stained axe barely held back by his crossed swords. “That’s _my_ word! Just who the hell does he think he-”

“Ssh!” Peter snapped. If Matt thought this was going to work, then they needed to give it space to actually work.

But Wade might as well have not said anything at all. Fisk was completely absorbed by the conversation, pacing. Peter’d never seen Fisk like this. One webbed up hand was up on his head, and the other clutched onto the borrowed phone. He was talking quickly, softly. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry,” he said. And then, “Okay.” And again, “Okay. Good-bye.”

The conversation was short, but just long enough that the tides of the fight on the roof had changed. No more surprises came from the lower floors. The last man on the roof was finally subdued. They’d won.

And, in his defeat, Fisk turned his back to them. Without looking, he tossed the phone back to Matt. Then he looked out on the city, at the people gathered below.

Peter started to approach but was stopped at the pressure of Matt’s hand on his chest. Then he saw why. Fisk was standing at the very edge of the ledge. One wrong move could send him over accidentally. Or on purpose.

“Should I ask you why you have my wife’s number?” Fisk asked calmly. In the knife’s edge of life verses death, Fisk seemed to find some peace.

“You already know why,” Matt replied tightly.

Fisk chuckled once. “She was right to leave me, you know. Of all the times in our married life that she needed me to be better… I blew it. I didn’t fight for her. I didn’t fight for us. I wasn’t loyal.”

Matt didn’t seem to know what to say. His hands were flexing restlessly by his sides. It occurred to Peter that he had no idea how long Matt was here, kept under Fisk’s thumb like a prized—and hated—toy.

“If you’re alive,” Peter said slowly, “you have a chance to make things right. You die, she deals with the consequences. Alone.” Fisk said nothing. Peter dared another step. “Come on. Your child shouldn’t have to grow up knowing that their father would rather commit _suicide_ than see them become an adult. A parent behind bars is better than no parent at all-”

“That’s a rather low blow for you, Spider-Man,” Fisk drawled, looking back at him. Peter realized, with slow dread, that his face was still bare. But Fisk didn’t seem very menacing at all. If anything, he just seemed very tired. “You’re my least favorite superhero. Did you know that?”

Fisk stepped off the ledge, and back on the roof. He kneeled passively and with grace, holding his hands behind his back. He was surrendering.

For once, Peter kept his mouth shut, merely adding another web cuff to Wilson Fisk’s collection.

Below them all, the sirens went on and on.


	18. Chapter 18

Wade was promised a date with his bomb tub and his beloved Petey-pie. He had such plans for it! Bubbles, naturally. Epsom salts. Candles. Soft music—no goddamn dubstep. Never again.

But Wade wasn’t released from questioning for a full four hours. And Petey? Hell. Peter wasn’t released until the sun was high in the sky. Wade was half asleep when Peter finally trudged in, steps heavy. He smelled of antiseptic and that chemical shit they called shampoo on SHIELD bases, but he was clean and his injuries were taken care of.

He dropped, face first, on the bed next to Peter. Peter got out of everything with minimal injuries. Despite having his mask literally whipped off his face, he only had a split lip from the incident. It was held together by a pair of cute, tiny butterfly bandages. He was bruised, obviously, and Wade had been the one to brace him when his dislocated shoulder was finally pushed back into place. He was nursing a a nasty looking cut on his leg too. But he was fine. He was healthy. He was well.

And he’d never had his head crushed by the Juggernaut.

Wade reached out and traced the lines of his back through his clothes. “How are you doing?” he asked quietly, so quietly that, if Petey was asleep, the question could be ignored.

And, for a moment, Wade thought it would be ignored. Then Peter lifted his head from Wade’s pillow, turning to face him. “Alright,” he said warily. After a beat, he screwed up his face like he’d bit into a very rotten lemon. “Got yelled at a lot.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, warming up to the topic. He turned over, holding himself up on his elbows. “At least once by almost everyone, actually. Even May and Ben are pissed.”

Well, Wade knew about that one. He’d broke the good news to his kind-of, sort-of in-laws the second he had a chance. After all three of them cried on the phone for about ten minutes, Aunt May started to get spicy. 

“Met Ralph's daughter. Got introduced to Roy's dad. Visited Natasha in the hospital,” Peter continued drowsily.

“She yell at you too?”

“She’s the only one who didn’t,” Peter said, somewhat defensive. Then he made a face. “Then again, she did have time to absorb it. And she also almost maimed me when we met, so…”

What? That didn’t compute. “Uh… I’m sorry?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Peter promised, rolling into him. Accepting that, Wade wrapped an arm around Peter’s shoulders.

Peter got out almost scratch free. It was a miracle. It could have been worse for everyone else too. They’d managed to get everyone out of their bomb collar by the time. Wendy’s decision to push the button had no casualties, just injuries, mostly because of the somewhat careless way they’d had ditched collars once they had been free of them.

Peter’s phone had been buzzing practically the entire time he’d been home. It stopped and continued to buzz again. Heavy limbed, Peter pawed at it, pulling it out of his pocket. He rose up slightly, as if he has going to respond. But Wade took the phone out of Peter’s limp hand, putting it on silent. Then he pressed his palm against Peter’s cheek. He had a low-grade fever.

Peter focused on him, red rimmed and blood shot eyes still so darn pretty despite everything. Despite the fatigue in them. Despite the sadness. “I’m not sure I helped anyone with this,” he admitted.

“I’m sure all the people who escaped with their lives disagree with you.”

Peter slowly shook his head. “Natasha had it handled.”

“No, Natasha was dying of blood loss,” Wade corrected him. He booped his honey’s nose. “ _You_ secured this victory. _You_ made this happen.”

Wade usually loved trying to shine a mirror on his Spider-Bae so Peter could see all the things Wade adored about him. But Wade was sensing that any such attempt wouldn’t sink in today. Peter was too tired. Too blue. Too grim. Too trapped in his own head.

“Life lost all meaning for Fisk when he drove his loved ones away. He was so ready to die,” Peter said after a minute. “I just- I could see myself doing the same thing.”

“You couldn’t,” Wade said.

“I did last year.”

“That was _different_. We were different. We- We were all being stupid. You know? All of us. Collectively. Look at you now.” Wade gestured at him. “You’ll never become Fisk. You have so many people who love you—and they’re all eagerly lining up to rip you a new one.”

Peter laughed at that, once and sharply. Then he groaned, hiding his face. “Aren’t you lining up too? You said you were angry at me.”

Who was angry? Not Wade.

Well. Yes Wade. Yes Wade by a lot. But his anger was tempered by a bone deep understanding of how Peter operated.

“I’m more angry at the circumstances. Not at you,” Wade hedged. “And I’m fucking furious at that captain of yours. Not gonna lie.”

“Give her a break,” Peter muttered protectively. “She’s been through a lot.”

Typical. Wade fluffed Peter’s hair until it stood straight up. His darling honey badger. Only then, did Wade say, “How about you try giving yourself the same latitude you allow other people, hm?

Peter’s eyes were closing. “Okay.” Wade was not sure he even heard what he was agreeing to.

It was okay. Wade would remind him later.

-

_Two Weeks Later_

“He’s ready to see you now, Mr. Spider-Man,” said the nurse.

Peter sprang too quickly to his feet. But his hands stayed stuck to the arms of the chair, and so the chair followed him. The nurse smiled kindly as Peter put back together her orderly waiting room, but Peter still felt embarrassed. Even without the gaffe, a fully suited Spider-Man in the hospital was going to set all sorts of tongues wagging.

Apologetic, he hung his head and mutely followed behind her as she led him to the room.

The second he crossed the threshold, he was assaulted by the smell of roses and flowers. They filled every corner of the room. Balloons took up even more space, even as tied down to chairs and bears and other weights are they were.

Just a fraction of the affection and well wishes that world wanted to heap on one Johnny Storm.

“Hey. Look who the cat dragged in.” Johnny’s voice was wrecked. He was covered almost neck to toe in bandaging. The thickest band of it was wrapped around Johnny’s neck and throat, a consequence of the handful of surgeries he’d had to endure to get all of the shrapnel out of him.

When he took the bombs, Johnny had burned as hot and as fast as he could to try and mitigate the damage, and that had worked fairly well. Still, then the collars blew, Johnny had been knocked off course, punctuated by pieces of white-hot metal, and knocked out. He’d fallen hundreds and hundreds of feet in the air, and, if not for certain luck inclined friends of Wade, he probably would have died from the fall itself.

As it was, Domino had unleashed a floating parade balloon, and Johnny landed right in the middle of it. Someday, the hundreds of videos on YouTube depicting a singed Johnny cradled in the arms of a slowly deflating Pikachu would be funny. But today just wasn’t that day. It was still too raw.

Peter hadn’t even known Johnny survived until a good ten hours after he’d been released by SHIELD. It was almost therapeutic, getting to do some shouting of his own.

Peter leaned in closer, scrutinizing some of the thicker pieces of gauze around Johnny’s neck. “Looks like the shrapnel did some damage to you after all. You’re not nearly as pretty as you used to be.”

“Shut up,” Johnny said, fidgeting. “I did what I could in the moment. Get off my back. No one was hurt.”

“You’re right,” Peter said warmly. “Even without the Four, you are a hell of a hero.”

Johnny looked away sharply, clearly not expecting that. “R-right,” he said unsteadily.

Peter paused, realizing that this was probably the extent of the conversation he could have with Johnny. He pulled back. They were just too different. And maybe some part of Johnny would always hate Peter. He could accept that. Besides, he’d only come here for his own peace of mind, not to repair someone that never really existed in the first place.

“Right,” he said, echoing Johnny. “Well. Glad you’re doing okay. See you around.”

With that said, he started to turn and leave but, at the last second, Johnny grabbed his wrist. Peter turned back to face him, confused. Johnny was glaring at his feet. Then, sighing, he looked up, making eye contact with Peter.

“I’m sorry,” he said bluntly. “Recently, I’ve been a jerk to you. I’ve been dealing with some stuff, and you didn’t deserve my attitude. It’s just…” Johnny trailed off, releasing Peter. He sighed, his face twisting. “Everything is changing and I don’t like it.” A moment later though, he was smiling faintly. “But when I was caught, I started remembering the early days. When it was just us, working in secret. How _afraid_ everyone was then. Sue was constantly on my ass. Ben wouldn’t leave the Baxter Building. Reed was constantly paralyzed with indecision.”

Peter remembered that too, how insular the Four had been. At the time, he assumed it was out of contempt. But the Four had been just as new as he was. He could have shown them more sympathy.

“It’s so much better now, and a big part of that is because of you,” Johnny continued meaningfully. “You should know that.”

“Thanks,” Peter said. Then, quieter, he said, “I’m better because of you all too.” And not just the Four. The Defenders too. And the Avengers. And even Wade’s ragtag former X-Force/current X-Men friends.

They were all better together.

Sue knocked on the door. “I guess this is a good time to interrupt?” She lifted a greased bag. “We have tasty contraband.”

“Oh, thank god,” Johnny said, making grabby hands. “The food here _sucks_.”

The rest of the Four piled in then and found chairs and places to sit. Deciding these conditions no longer reflected Peter’s request for a private conversation, Wade popped in ten minutes later, stealing a handful of the Thing’s fries.

“So…” Johnny said leadingly, halfway into his second burger. He made a circular gesture at Peter. It took a minute and some chewing for Peter to fully understand what he meant. Then, getting it, Peter pointed at himself and shared his name. Johnny had already seen his face. “Right. That’s gonna take some time to get used to…”

“So what are you going to do now that the Fanatasic Four’s retiring?” Wade asked thickly, dunking more stolen fries in Reed’s abandoned ketchup pile.

“Stuff,” Reed said, distracted. He was watching his son try to pry apart his rattle. He was one of those parents that encourage their kids to destroy stuff, if only to try and show them how to put them back together.

“And things?” Peter followed up questioningly.

Sue laughed, rocking her shoulder into his. “Oh, certainly,” she said, sharing a knowing look with Peter. Reed was next to useless when Franklin was around.

But he too seemed to be aware of it by now, so he tried to keep contributing to the conversation. Reed continued to bounce Franklin on his knees. “Well, Ben’s been developing the 5-year road map for _Kissy Kissy Meow Meow_ for about 9 months now, so I imagine he’ll just continue with that.”

Ben dropped his burger into his lap. The resulting silence was punctuated by the rattling of Franklin’s toy. The child laughed with absolute glee, thrilled.

Reed’s brain caught up with what he said. His expression was less joyful. “And that,” he said with a profound realization, “was a _secret_ -”

“My hero!” Wade flung himself at Ben. Peter was disconcerted. Ben, even more so.

“What’s a… _Kissy Kissy Meow Meow_?” Sue asked.

Wade rounded on her, incredulous. “What are you, living under a rock? It’s only the 15th most downloaded mobile app on the app store!” When that failed to impress, he spun back to Ben, jabbing a finger at him. “Dwayne! The twunk in the lab coat! _You know the one._ How do I unlock his backstory? I want to woo him with my in-game currency and my devotion to all things ‘answer c’.”

For some reason, Ben shot Peter a guilty look. “He’s not actually romanceable yet. Sorry.” Wade let out a wounded noise, pretending to cry in the corner.

Meanwhile, Reed was trying to explain to his wife what the app was. “It’s kind of this, um. Well. There’s a secret society of people with kitty powers-”

Franklin burbled something that sounded like the word kitty. Reed was enraptured and thus utterly failed to follow up this very bad explanation with something less embarrassing.

Sue had heard enough. “Oh, Ben, really?” she said, sounding disappointed.

Now being targeted, Ben buckled down on his decision-making processes. “What? The internet loves cats.”

“Dude, that’s _not_ why people are interested in it,” Johnny said, cackling madly.

No longer sobbing at the injustices of the world, Wade popped back into the circle. “Someone didn’t do his market research,” Wade said in a sing-songy tone. He pulled his wallet out, brandishing money. “I will pay someone $500 to explain to him, right here and right now, what a _furry_ is-”

Peter might not have understood the app conversation, but he at least understood that reference. He stood, grabbing Wade by the back of his collar. “And that’s our cue to leave. Come on, Wade.”

Wade whined and resisted for all of two seconds before bouncing after Peter. He instantaneously pirouetted into a good mood again, still cackling over his discovery.

Peter was less amused. “Did you really have to do all that to Ben?” he hissed as they walked down the hallway. “What if he’s a, you know…”

They passed a doctor drinking from a mug. Wade barely avoided hitting him with his outstretched arms. “Then I will welcome him into the community with open arms, but, until then, I will mock his innocence because what _adult_ gets to his age without knowing what a furry is?” The doctor choked on his coffee. Vindicated, Wade gestured at him. “Look, he gets it?”

Peter eyed him carefully. “I feel like I’ve learned things about you today.”

“Animal-themed superheroes shouldn’t be so judgy.”

Peter looked down at himself reflexively, alarmed. And the faster Peter closed the book on that revelation, the better, thanks.

Quickly, he blurted out, “So the guy in the game. What’s he like?”

Wade allowed the topic change. He hugged himself, wiggling back and forth. “He’s a little liar who doesn’t trust me, but _Daddy, I love him_ ,” he said, ending that statement in a falsetto. Then a thought occurred to him. “Why, are you jelly?”

Peter squirmed. “…A little.”

Wade cackled again. He didn’t stop. He kept giggling, eventually wheezing with the force of it. Finally, he sucked in a breath and fished out his phone. “Oh, honey, you shouldn’t be.”

“Right,” Peter said, relieved. He was pretty sure he knew how this conversation was supposed to go. “Because he’s a fictional character, and I shouldn’t be comparing myself to someone who is literally just pixels, code, and-”

“Nope, none of those things,” Wade said abruptly, then shoved his phone in Peter’s face.

Peter understood almost immediately. “Oh.”

Wade’s “twunk in a lab coat” looked just like Peter.

-

“ _You know, back in the day, everyone was on Kingpin’s payroll_ ,” O’Leary said quickly. He leaned against the table, half-smiling like he was still in control. “ _Everyone important, anyway. I got caught selling some meth on the side, but instead of taking my badge, my supervisor took me to Kingpin_.” O’Leary made a wide sweeping motion with his hands, a motion that was abruptly limited by the handcuffs locking him to the table. “ _Kingpin made all my trouble disappear—my side business, my money troubles, even my annoying neighbor. All I had to do was lose some key bits of evidence-_ ”

What a loathsome piece of shit, Yuri thought.

“He’s singing like a canary,” George Stacy said, stepping up from behind Yuri. They stood shoulder to shoulder, looking through the one-way mirror as Tom O’Leary spilled his guts.

“A lot of people were killed in the last 48 hours. O’Leary’s trying to dodge multiple murder charges by cooperating.” Yuri smirked wryly. “No one wants to be a cop in prison.”

“ _-and I was so, so lucky Kingpin didn’t take his lock up personally,_ ” O’Leary continued. “ _I mean, I was supposed to make sure that court case failed, right? But there was so much evidence…_ ”

“One thing O’Leary can’t pin on Kingpin is the hit on you,” Stacy said. “Fisk sent out general orders that cases pertinent to him should be sabotaged, but you weren’t on Wilson Fisk’s radar specifically. The only person who could have come up with and ordered it was O’Leary.”

Yuri scoffed at that. “Because I was too close to figuring things out, huh?”

“No one else noticed the irregularities in the medical convoys from the prison,” Stacy reminded her.

“I was just lucky. I saw a man I knew should have been serving time. That’s all.”

“ _-and I was brought to him a year ago, and I thought, Tom, this is your last day on earth. But Kingpin was different. Quieter, you know? He just asked me, calm as can be, if I’d be willing to continue my work with him. I said yes, and he let me go. That’s it._ ” O’Leary shoved away from the table, heaving a sigh. “ _Hell, I didn’t even know about the underground fighting rings until yesterday. I was flabbergasted. That seemed like too inelegant for Mr. Fisk. Too risky. Too prone to mistakes-_ ”

“And Henderson?” Yuri forced herself to ask.

Stacy sighed. “Similar story. His dad made big money stealing evidence from lockup. But the tech involved changed, and, when work was put into converting paper logs into digital data, someone started to realize that the original logs had been tampered with—and Henderson’s dad had his name all over it.” Stacy shook his dead, visibly disappointed. “But Kingpin swooped in and fixed it. He also purposely fed Henderson information about the dealings of his enemies, which gradually turned Henderson into the rising star that he was. All Henderson had to do in return was conduct some surveillance, which you’ve seen.”

“Then why-” Yuri stopped, needing to swallow. “Then why are three men dead?”

“Henderson didn’t order it, but he sure made it easy. Juggernaut killed Johannsson, Ramirez, and that young cadet in Spider-Man’s costume. He was also supposed to kill you, but you weren’t at the right place at the right time, and Juggernaut got bored. O’Leary ordered that too, I think, but he won’t cop to it.”

O’Leary had been tracking her. That, he’d already admitted. She’d been so suspicious of everyone else, but, in the end, it was her own phone that betrayed her. It was so stupidly preventable. After all, she knew she had enemies in the precinct. She just didn’t think her enemies were above her too.

Stacy sighed. “As a career police officer, something that always bothered me is the way cops let themselves go astray. They either dig themselves in a hole, committing crimes they’re supposed to prevent, or they see justice miscarried one too many times and decide to take the law in their own hands. It’s so… preventable. If caught early enough, that is. But organizations like ours tend to have a difficult time with introspection.” After a long beat, he cast his eyes in her direction. “I won’t accept your resignation, Captain.”

Yuri tensed. She turned to him. “Why not? I am clearly unfit for duty,” Yuri said thickly. “I withheld evidence. I hid the body of one man, and I assaulted another. I harbored and supported the career of a Kingpin plant. I sent an untrained civilian undercover in an illegal fighting ring. And if he had failed-”

“Yuri,” Stacy said gently, warningly.

“-I _would_ have taken the law in my own hands, and you know it. As it is, Jessica Jones is the only reason why Henderson isn’t a smear on the floor right now.” Yuri said nothing for a while, just shaking. She stared at the ground. Stacy waited her out. “I know the difference between a vigilante and a cop. There are oaths, duties, responsibilities… but sometimes being a cop is like we’re pounding our fists against a wall.” She looked up from the floor. “At least the vigilante can scale it.”

After a beat, Stacy nodded. “I’m putting you on leave, Yuri. Real leave, this time.” He held up his hand, stopping protests. “It’s not a punishment. It’s a break. I want you to think about why you became a cop in the first place, and if you want to continue your career or stop it in its tracks. When you come back, I’ll accept your resignation, should you still want to give it.” He clapped a hand on her shoulder. “These feelings are natural to have. It doesn’t make you a bad cop to be tempted to end the injustices in front of you. But being an officer and upholding the law is one of the best, safest, and most just ways of doing that. You understood that, once.”

“Thank you, sir,” Yuri said after a pause. She meant it. She appreciated his perspective on her struggle.

Stacy smiled. “Come on. No need to listen any more to this disgrace. Your leave starts now.”

They walked out together, leaving the room behind. Rubbing a hand over her face quickly, Yuri stopped, pulling a letter out of her jacket. She offered it to him. “Can you- I have a letter for Spider-Man.”

She had yet to see Peter Parker, and, in fact, had avoided him at all costs. But she hung onto the word of every press conference that both the NYPD and the Avengers coordinated since the Kingpin was captured once again. She was now the dubious owner of a plethora of superhero facts, up to and including the names of all the different people involved.

Barnes, for instance, went by the name _Bucky_ , not the Winter Soldier. That was unexpectedly cute for such a dangerous man.

George looked down at the letter. Then he pushed it back into her hands. “First, there’s someone here to see you.”

Stacy led her down the hallway of the precinct. There was a man pacing outside of the bullpen. His back was to her, and he was pulling lightly on his brown hair.

She didn’t need him to turn around. No one walked like Spider-Man.

But turn around he did, immediately lighting up. He grinned, looking so relieved to see her. Part of Yuri broke a little.

Stacy wasn’t done. “While you’re on leave, I want you to think a bit on why a mercenary goes cold turkey on murdering people, why superheroes develop international policing agencies, and why vigilantes have started working hand in hand with their local PD. Rule books aren’t made just for bureaucrats and lawyers.” He patted her shoulder once and pulled away. “Whatever you decide, make sure you’re accountable for your actions. One way or another.”

-

Everything was perfect.

Well, no. Everything was not perfect. Way to burst Wade’s bubble, _reader_.

Pizza was laid out in front of him from Peter’s favorite pizza place. But Wade fucked up the cannolis. He melted the ice cream. He accidentally spilled beer on one of the pizzas. His attempt at garlic bread charred to a crisp, and now Wade had all windows open. Desperately trying to get the smell of burnt bread out of the apartment with strategically placed candles.

Now everything smelled like pizza. And lavender. And burnt bread. And beer.

And Peter noticed absolutely none of that when he burst through the door. Linking his fingers together, Wade waited for him with bated breath.

But Peter was oblivious and already talking. “Okay, I can’t stop thinking about what you said about me not compromising on things, and I think I get what you mean, but I still have some ideas. First, absolutely no more undercover. I suck at it. Second, if something happens or allegedly happens to me, I need to immediately call someone. And third—hear me out because I’m not 100% sure about this, but I may be amendable to a possible subcutaneous tracking device so I’ll never… disappear… on you?”

Peter trailed off, finally realizing that Wade hadn’t greeted him by the door like he normally did. He was quiet, taking in the scene—the dimmed lights, the soft music, the candles everywhere. Then, after a beat, he followed the path Wade had laid out for them.

They met eyes a moment later. “Rose petals?” Peter questioned with a crooked smile. “I’ve been reliably informed that they’re very basic.”

“Who told you that? They sound like an asshole,” Wade said with a nervous chuckle. He braced his arms against the island in his kitchen, then abruptly pulled back, feeling like a chemistry teacher about to light a whole table on fire for shits and giggles. Swallowing, he rounded the island until he and Peter were toe-to-toe instead. He hadn’t thought this one through. Who was sweating? Not Wade!

As Wade continued to quietly panic, Peter picked up on it, growing more and more alarmed. “Wade?”

Wade clenched his eyes shut. He was so afraid this was going to be a repeat of that horrible night 5 weeks ago. Of course, he started off on the wrong foot by blurting out a proposal after watching Peter take out three guys. Nothing like that was happening here! But he still had a very real fear he was going to get the same response—a hell to the no.

“Ha. Right. I should-” Wade shuffled his feet. Then he dropped to his knee and looked up at Peter. Peter’s eyes were very wide.

Wade had only one chance to get this right.

“I told you I want to marry you,” Wade said soberly. “You know by now that I love you. When I proposed before, what I failed to express as much was my desire to spend the rest of my life with you. All of it. Sickness and health. And just as I want to share my life with you, I want to share yours too. Your fears. Your challenges. Your concerns. I want this whole… big whole ass commitment with you. You know?”

Peter was stunned and silent.

“Marry me. Or don’t, it’s all Gucci to me. Marriage is just a convenient metaphor for what I want for us—less 50% divorce rate and more the sharing of everything.” Wade gulped. “I’ll watch your back. you’ll watch mine. I’ll keep everything you love safe. And you’ll do the same for me. It doesn’t really matter what wrapping paper it’s in—it’s still a _gift_.” Wade started laughing shakily, hunching over where he kneeled. “Petey, you got to say something here. I’m drowning-”

Wade stopped. Three fingers were skating along Wade’s cheekbone. “Can’t have that,” Peter said warmly. “I’m supposed to be watching your back, right?”

Wade straightened up slowly. “You mean…”

“I want all of it,” Peter said. “And I want all of you. Let’s get married.”

Wade laughed, tears springing to his eyes. Peter started laughing too, a rare joy on his face. He leaned in for a kiss—then wobbled, unbalanced when Wade suddenly sprang away.

Wade didn’t leave his honey badger hanging for too long. Proudly, he dragged in the flipboard easel he’d purchased for this very reason. With a dramatic flourish, he flipped up the first page, revealing the colorful storyboard for his first idea.

“Okay! So here’s the plan. Scenario A. We spread a huge rumor that I’m _dying_. Super cancer beats super healing. We talk the Hulk into brewing me some nasty strong sleepy juice, and we have a super public funeral. Boo hoo, sob sob. We’ll straight up bury my ass for the sake of realism. I can take it.” Peter was staring at him like he was speaking a dead language. “Anyhoo. You mourn me for three months. Then I’ll slide into your DMs with a new ID, date you like a normal person for six months, and then we get married. I’ll even let you pick my name.” Wade looked at Peter for approval and didn’t get it. “No?”

Rolling with it, Wade ripped the paper off the easel and tossed it to the side. He dove straight into the next plan. “Okay, Scenario B. Big messy break up with the Avengers. I mean, like some Civil War stuff, only more interesting. Very dramatic. It ends with a fight with whoever would enjoy killing me publicly the most—Iron Man? I die, and we tell everyone that Iron Man has reverse engineered my healing factor and I am now officially dead, dead.” Wade rotated his wrist casually. “You initiate the 3-month mourning period, then I’ll slide into your DMs, we date like normal people-”

“We’re not doing that,” Peter interrupted.

“Okey dokey,” Wade said, tearing that storyboard down too. “Scenario C. I steal the Four’s spaceship, and I fly it straight into a blackhole-”

“What do all of these plans involve you dying?” Peter interrupted. Ooh. He sounded mad.

“Because!” Wade didn’t elaborate. He thought it was pretty self-explanatory. Apparently not. He tried again. “Because… then no one would have the pieces to put two and two together and come up with Peter Parker is Spider-Man?” Wade didn’t think he had to explain this. Back to the basics then. “Okay, so… My identity is public knowledge, right? Yours isn’t. And I’ve been _hella_ flirty with both versions of you, which, my bad, but not legal documentation bad, right?” Wade flapped a hand at his discarded but very well-thought out relationship proposals. “I’m the only problematic variable in the ‘Wade marries Petey’ scenario. So if I remove _me_ , we could totally get hitched!”

Wait. That didn’t make total sense.

“You’re not the problematic variable here, Wade,” Peter said, exasperated. “And you’re overcomplicating this. This whole scenario could be improved by. One. Small. Change.” Peter shot a line of web at the last scenario on the floor. Once it was in his hands, he smoothed it out and pressed it back against the easel, flipping it over to the blank side.

Confused but supportive of any brainstorming efforts, Wade gave him a pink sharpie.

Peter didn’t draw, as a rule. He sucked at it. His writing too could use some work. He had the penmanship of a drunk doctor with the shakes.

But he wrote out his own version of events in broad, thick strokes, and Wade read it out loud over his shoulder.

“ _Step 1: Get engaged._ Whoo, check that one off. _Step 2: Tell Wade how much I love him._ Aw, shucks, baby, you didn’t have to, I-” Wade stopped, reading ahead. “ _Step 3_ … Step 3?” He pulled back, staring at Peter. “Really? Really really?!?”

“Really, really,” Peter confirmed. He looked very pale. Cradling his head, he asked, “Where’s the paper bag?”

“Coming right up!” Tripping over the easel, Wade hurled himself into the kitchen, yanking out two paper bags from the stash he kept here just for Peter. He ran back, opening them up as he went. His mind raced a million miles a second.

He was really going to do it. Peter was really going to _out Spider-Man_.

In the time between asking for a paper bag and Wade providing it, Peter had wrangled back his impending panic attack admirably well. He was leaning back against the wall, breathing in and out in short ten second intervals with his face tipped gently upward. 

Peter accepted Wade’s offering with a thanks. Then he frowned. “Why did you get two paper bags? I only needed the- oh.”

Wade shoved the extra bag in his own face.

In, out. In, out. In, out-


	19. Chapter 19

Harry was pacing back and forth in his apartment. “How are you not anxious?” he demanded. “I’m scared _for_ you.”

“It’s fine.” It was not fine. And it was a mistake, Peter was sure, to Facetime Harry right before the big press conference. But everyone else had been bustling around, doing things and being productive—Peter was quite literally in the way. So he’d hopped up on the very tall ceiling and called Harry for pointers. After all, Harry gave press conferences all of the time.

But Harry seemed bound and determined to enable all of Peter’s insecurities at once. Harry clapped his face twice, still pacing. “Okay, do what I do, and remember this: _You make more money than any of them_.”

Peter cocked his head. “I don’t, though?”

That took the wind out of Harry’s sails. “Oh, you’re right.” Then an unholy smirk crossed his face. He stalked towards wherever he’d stuck his phone, lifting it up to gloat. “Say, about that raise…”

“Gwen,” Peter said flatly. “I’m going to kill your boyfriend.”

Harry yelped, and the screen spun as the phone was snatched out of his hand. Gwen’s familiar frowning face filled the space. “Not until I marry him. I want to be a rich, brooding widow, and you will not rob me of that experience.”

“Long walks on long balconies in long dresses. Heavy sighs?”

“The heaviest.” After a pause, she beamed at him. “You’ll do fine. Everyone’s in position, right?” Peter looked around, not that he needed to. They’d only gone over the plan five different times. He was learning to never lean on Steve Rogers for emotional guidance. While nice, Steve had a tendency of assuming that the worst-case scenario was automatically the most likely one to happen.

“And my dad is right there,” Gwen reminded him. “If you decide you don’t want to do this, we’ve already talked. He’s ready to cover for you.”

It was an extremely kind from a man Peter had actively worked to avoid meeting for years. That he’d ended up becoming friends with—and working for—George Stacy’s daughter was evidence that the universe liked to laugh at him.

It was just a press conference, Peter reminded himself. No big deal.

And it wasn’t like the audience was expecting anything either. This was not the first press conference since Wilson Fisk was taken back to jail. It wasn’t even the first press conference where Peter had to explain himself to the doubting public. He’d had to stand there awkwardly as the NYPD explained that the dead Spider-Man in the news was part of a failed policing experiment to try and increase a sense of safety in the community. The conference did little to squash the doubts and conspiracy theories. It took several weeks of reports of him being back on duty for most of those to die out—though there was a handful of stubborn ones still left. Most who saw Peter knew he was the real deal. After all, as Yuri like to say, no one moved quite like Spider-Man.

Peter pressed his back harder against the wall, still in a crouch. In the audience, he saw Reed and Sue mingling with some reporters. Steve and Tony stood on the inactive stage, talking to each other warily. Natasha, out of bed too early, was openly scanning the crowd. Already seated in the front row, Ellie and Colossus bookended an extremely excited teenager. She was emerald green and sparkly, and she wore a proud badge claiming she was a student journalist from Charles Xavier’s school.

Looking up from him at the back, Scott shot him a pair of thumbs up. Hope swatted him immediately, but the damage was done. More than one person looked up at Peter, and more than one camera rose to take a picture. Waving awkwardly, Peter unstuck himself from the wall and dropped soundlessly to the floor. He went back on the stage.

A few minutes later, the press conference proceedings started, and everyone got to their places. Peter was put on the stage with Tony to his left and George Stacy to his right. When Peter looked up at him carefully, Stacy shot him a reassuring smile. He looked a lot like Gwen when he did that. Peter stood up straighter, clearing his throat.

Then the conference truly started and the recording began.

Usually, Peter tried not to visibly yawn when he was dragged to these things. This time, though, he stared at the main camera, thinking of the people on the other side.

Wade and Bucky were having lunch with Ben and May Parker. Wade wouldn’t be able to convince his aunt and uncle to eat out, so they were probably sitting at home in front of the television. Wanda and Jessica would be in May and Ben’s neighborhood, allegedly looking into a case even though Queens was well off the beaten path for them. They’d promised to listen in. Miles would be with his dad. Harry would be with Gwen. Silk would be with Rhodes in the Baxter Building. As the only people Reed trusted at the moment to babysit Franklin, they were holding down the fort there.

Clint wouldn’t even be watching this, too busy overseeing the return of the Juggernaut to the Raft. And Vision? Peter didn’t know if the guy actually watched things, per se. Or if he just downloaded it, learning through some kind of machine osmosis.

Peter shook himself from his thoughts, realizing he was missing Reed and Sue’s announcement. This was a big deal for them, and a hard decision. The Fantastic Four was officially disbanding for the time being.

“Johnny will be working primarily with the Avengers,” Reed announced. Behind him, Johnny nodded seriously. Grinning, Ben elbowed Johnny, marring this façade of maturity and responsibility. Johnny barely kept his cool. “The rest of us will be on-call for crises. Right now, we’re focusing on raising on our son.”

“No questions,” Sue said. “Thank you.” 

Despite this request, there were nothing but questions shouted at them and many requests for more in-depth information. Peter sucked in a deep breath. This was it. This was the time.

Stacy stopped him before he could approach the podium. The crowd wasn’t ready yet, and Peter didn’t notice.

“Mr. Chief Stacy, sir,” Peter said, bungling it.

“George is fine, Spider-Man.”

Steve stepped up to the podium, calming the crowd down as he talked about the service that the Fantastic Four had done for the community, and how much the Avengers appreciated the opportunity to work with the Human Torch.

George leaned, covering his mouth. “I’ve been told to make something up on the fly if you decide to bow out. I’ve also been told that no one will judge you if you do. But somehow, you don’t strike me as somebody who backs down easily.”

“…I’m about to throw up.”

Surprised, George laughed. “My daughter thinks extremely highly of you, Spider-Man. So let me share some advice my mentor once told me.” He clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder, gripping it tight. “Press conferences like these are not being made to your friends. They’re being made to your enemies. They’re one of the most powerful tools you have in your tool belt to let dangerous people know that you see their actions, you’re on to their methods, and you will _not_ tolerate them hurting any more decent people.” Peter looked up at him. George smiled ruefully. “So… no pressure.”

Steve trailed off in what he was saying about a united front against evil, looking at Peter with a visible question on his face. It said _are you in_? Peter gave him a short, tight nod.

“…and last but not least, we’d like to wrap up with this conference with an invitation for Spider-Man to approach the podium. Spider-Man?”

Peter walked up to the mike slowly. Steve patted his back once as they swapped spots. Peter gingerly picked up the microphone. “Hi,” he said stupidly. “I… also have a major announcement?”

More than one person raised their eyebrows at his hesitant delivery. Peter bowed his head, his heart beating like mad in his chest.

George was right. Part of him had been quietly, stupidly, intently fixated on how this was going to change the way people looked at him. But this wasn’t about the people he loved. It had taken him a lot this last year to open up and reveal himself to his friends and families, but it had been worth it. They accepted him. They embraced him. They cared for him, even to the point of getting angry when he didn’t care for himself.

This wasn’t about them at all.

Peter put the microphone back on its stand, then grabbed both edges of the podium, leaning into it. He scanned the room critically, thinking not of the people behind the camera that watched, but rather of Fisk’s eyes when they fell on his bare face.

“I’ve been labeled a lot of things in the past—a menace for one.” Peter nodded politely towards a Daily Bugle reporter. A chuckle went through the room. Even though J. Jonah Jameson had been retired for years, his biased slant on the news was somewhat notorious. “A vigilante for another. A vainglory moron. A villain.” He paused. “But I’ve also saved a lot of people, a lot of purses, and a lot of cats. I’ve been, to many, a hero. And yet there has been criticism of me in the past for not standing in the spotlight with the rest of the people behind me. New York City does not like not knowing who the man behind this mask is.”

The room went very quiet. Peter paused, wondering if they could read his intention in his words. He continued regardless. “I’ve seen the best of people. But I’ve also seen the worst. I’ve been convinced for a long time that, if the price of me standing up would be everyone I’ve ever loved getting knocked down? Then I better wear a mask.” Peter stopped, then looked at Tony. Tony was looking right back at him, eyes shining with pride. “This fear has guided me for years and led me to be less than truthful with you and with my loved ones. But I am afraid no longer.”

Peter straightened up, widening his stance—because George Stacy was right. “Something these last two years have taught me is that I’m not alone in this. I have friends and allies who are many times smarter and stronger than me. I have people now, people who are willing to help me and protect all that I care about. I’ve been afraid for so long that my enemies will come knocking at my aunt and uncle’s front door if I was known. Now I know that if they do come, and they will, they’ll have a hell of a lot more people to answer to than just me.”

In front of the nation—and the world—Peter reached behind his head, gripping spandex. Gasps filled the air. Cameras went off left and right, trying to catch the exact moment his mask left his face.

And suddenly it was free. His face was bare. “My name is Peter Parker. I’ve been Spider-Man since I was 18 years old.” He tipped his chin up challengingly. “Any questions?”

The room exploded with noise.


End file.
